


Weapon of Choice: Book I

by xantissa



Series: Weapon of Choice [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Possession, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-01
Updated: 2012-06-01
Packaged: 2017-11-06 12:25:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 109,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/418915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xantissa/pseuds/xantissa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A case turning out to be a set up. Sam taken away from him. An enemy he can’t identify. Father that struggles to understand. Dean, alone, fighting to save his brother from power no one can really understand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue and chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> // - indicate journal entries

Prologue

 

3:15 in the morning and Dean was awake, jerked out of the much needed sleep by the same thing for the last week.

Sam.

He had a nightmare,

Again.

Probably the same one. One that started after Sam tried to kill him in that damned Asylum. His chest just started to heal after that rock salt shotgun blast. Dean stopped that train of thought. He would not think about it. Would not remember that his little brother not only pulled a gun on him, but also pulled the trigger. Repeatedly. With every intent to kill him. Yeah, he was possessed, but still... Dean didn’t even realize, that subconsciously, he believed that his Sammy, his little brother would never hurt him. Stupid, he knew… But it still didn’t change the feeling of betrayal that had haunted him ever since.

He told Sam that it was okay, that he knew it wasn’t Sam, not really, in that boiler room pointing a gun at his head. Logically, he knew that. This knowledge, however, didn’t stifle that stabbing pain that wracked through him every time that he remembered that moment.

Dean lay still, pretending to be asleep, and listened to his brother’s choked gasps. The bed squeaked, that meant Sam was up, just like every night for the past week and he wouldn’t be going back to sleep anytime soon. 

Dean considered getting up himself and trying to comfort his brother, but decided against it. First, he doubted Sam would actually let him and second, he was still feeling betrayed. He’d never known just how deeply Sam detested their lifestyle. So he closed his eyes, pretending not to hear the choked sobs coming from the other side of the room.

Sam didn’t lay down again, but unlike before, Dean could hear him coming closer, approaching Dean almost hesitantly. Carefully, as if unsure of his welcome near his brother. It made something in his chest clench at the thought that Sam didn’t feel safe enough, comfortable enough, loved enough to ask for comfort, for help.

Dean kept his body carefully relaxed, trying to look deeply asleep and waited to see what Sam would do. 

For long minutes, he could feel his brother’s eyes on him, and then his bed dipped and the covers were lifted. Instantly, he was transported back in time, back to the time when Sammy was still very little and had nightmares. Even then, Sammy wasn’t good in asking for help. Dean guessed that no one in their family was. When little, his brother used to crawl into Dean’s bed in the middle of the night and plaster himself to his older brother, seeking comfort and warmth. Dean never told him that those nights gave him as much comfort as they did to Sam. 

And then, one day, Sam just stopped coming to his bed, Dean missed it, but never actually asked his brother why he stopped. 

So now, feeling Sam crawl carefully under the covers behind him, Dean felt something painful and old uncurl and let go inside of him. When he felt Sam’s cold hands on his waist, and his damp face pressing into his neck, Dean felt all the anger leave him. He reached for his brother’s trembling hand and pulled it forward, pressing it into his bandaged chest and keeping it there, making Sam press completely flush against his back. He could feel how badly Sam was shivering, how terrified he was.

“Sammy... it’s okay, it’s okay.” he said gently, wishing words could help.

He could feel wetness on Sam’s cheeks as he pressed his face in the crook of Dean’s arm. His lips moved, Dean could feel it, but it took him a while to understand the whispered words.

“So sorry, I’m so sorry. I’ll never hurt you again. I promise.” Sam repeated those words over and over again, desperately trying to believe them. 

Dean only closed his eyes and pulled his little brother that little bit closer.

But you will Sammy, he thought sadly, when you leave me again.

 

 

 

Chapter 1

 

 

Dean could honestly say that he had never felt a terror like this before.

He jerked, desperately against the hold those two thugs has on him, but all he accomplished was the knife digging that much deeper into his neck, causing a trickle of blood to run down his neck and pool on his collarbone.   
Then the blows came. Hard and vicious, right into his kidneys. The pain forcing him to his knees, gasping, fighting to stay conscious.

“Dean!” He could hear Sam screaming his name and looked up. Another man was standing near his brother, a gun pointed straight at his temple. From that distance, even a two year old couldn’t miss. Sam’s eyes were wide and filled with fear. For himself and for Dean, as he stared at his brother in his knees. They were fucked real good on this one.

Dean heard the tell- tale click of a safety being released and felt the cold barrel of a gun being pressed into the back of his head. He stilled. There were simply too many of them to fight, and no human was faster than bullets. Fuck.

“What do you want?” Asked Sam, obviously trying to control his fear. 

Dean wondered about it also. They never expected to be lured into this stinky little town by a group of men that got him and his brother disarmed in a matter of minutes. Of course, the fact that there were eight of them also helped.

“We want you to cooperate.” Answered a man dressed in an expensive suit. He was also noticeably older than the rest of his men. Obviously the one in control here.

“Your brother here...” He said pointing at Dean, “Has a chance to survive. Only if you cooperate though.”

Dean had a bad feeling. A really, really bad feeling.

“Sam, don’t listen to him. Not for me! Sam...” He was stopped when a steel tipped boot connected with his stomach causing a wave of nausea and pain to wash over him, almost making him vomit.

“Shit.” He swore breathlessly.

“One more word and I’ll shoot out your knees.” Warned one of the men standing beside him.

The man in charge lifted a small, wooden chest and opened it. From his position on the floor, Dean couldn’t see what was in it. But judging by the way Sam took a step back, it wasn’t anything good.

“Do you know what this is?” Asked the older man.

Sam nodded, his face paler than before, making his eyes look huge and vulnerable.

“Why me?” He asked, looking from the open chest to Dean and back again.

“Only certain individuals can use it. If anyone else tried to touch the blade, they would be killed instantly.”

“Why do you think I am one of those... individuals?”

“I have been watching you for a very long time, Sam.”

“But you aren’t sure.”

The man smiled. It was a small, cruel grin that made Dean even more afraid.

“You have already dreamed about the blade, haven’t you? You want to touch it, to see how it fits into your hand.”

Sam licked his lips, and in that moment, Dean knew it was the truth. Sam did want to touch whatever was in that goddamned box.

“It’s not like you have much choice anyway Sam.” Dean hated the way that man spoke his brother’s name. It was cheap, sleazy and just plain wrong to hear it from him. “You refuse and I kill first your brother, then you. You agree and your brother will get out of this with only mild injuries.”

“And Sam?” Dean asked roughly, his guts twisting with apprehension. “What about him?”

The man looked back and Dean, his eyes cruel and cold.

“There will no longer be a Sam.”

“You fucking sonofabitch, I am going to kill you mys...”

“Okay.”

Dean almost choked.

“What?! You can’t possibly be serious Sam!” Another blow to his gut stopped whatever he would have said.

“Stop it!” Sam yelled “I’ll do it. Just don’t hurt him anymore.”

Still curled on the floor, fighting nausea and pain, Dean flashed back to the night a few weeks ago when Sam came to his bed after a particularly nasty nightmare and the promise Sam made then. Shutting his eyes against the pain in his gut and in his heart Dean cursed a blue streak. Not for him. Not like this. He was supposed to be the protector, not Sammy.

Oh God Sammy, don’t. He thought desperately. He couldn’t understand why his little brother was so eager to sacrifice himself.

“First the pendant.” He heard the older man say.

“What is it?” Asked Sam.

“Something to make sure you won’t turn against me.” 

There was silence after that, and Dean managed to open his eyes enough to look at his little brother reaching into the chest. He withdrew a simple, round pendant on a thin, silver chain.

Dean did his best to focus on the simple design, knowing that he would need every scrap of information to save his brother from... whatever was going to happen. 

With his face pale and hands shaking, Sam pulled the silver chain over his head. Dean watched him close his eyes in anticipation and then open them in confusion.

“Nothing happened.” Sam said, his voice just this side from shaky.

“Take the blade.”

Sam looked directly at Dean, his eyes dark and haunted. His little brother was afraid, but willing to do it, because it gave Dean a chance to get out of this mess alive. Dean didn’t want it. Didn’t want Sam to sacrifice himself. He wasn’t worth it.

“Sammy.” He croaked, desperately. It was all so very wrong. It was never supposed to be Sam. Dean was the one that should have died first, he was the one that was supposed to take care of his little brother. This sacrifice... he didn’t want.

“I love you, Dean. Tell Dad... tell Dad that I forgave him a long time ago. He was wrong, but I understand.”

Closing his eyes, cutting himself off from Dean, Sam reached into the chest and withdrew a strange, yet beautiful blade. It was curved, elegant, reminding Dean of a claw and looked positively deadly. For a few moments nothing happened and Dean started to think that it was all a huge fucking mistake, when suddenly Sam screamed. Lightning after lightning burst out of the deadly looking weapon, striking the floor, ceiling, walls with earsplitting noise, filling the room with the sharp scent of ozone. The strands of electricity crawled over Sam’s body, forcing him to his knees, still screaming in pain and terror. 

Dean didn’t realize he was screaming with him and he watched as the lightning seemed to sink into his brother’s body. He listened with mounting terror and disbelief as his brother screamed with everything inside him. Dean watched his tendons stand out and the muscles of his arm ripple. He didn’t realize his cheeks were wet with tears, just like Sam’s were.

Just as suddenly as it all started, it all ended. Breathing heavily, Sam was kneeling on the floor, bent over so far his forehead nearly touched the dirty concrete. His hair were shaggy, obscuring his face even more than normal, hiding his eyes in shadows. Dean couldn’t see the blade any longer.

After a few minutes of simply breathing, Sam unfolded his lean, long frame from the curled up position. There was something odd about the way he moved. Something more graceful, more confident, dangerous. Dean blinked, not really believing his eyes. His younger brother wasn’t supposed to move like a predator. He watched him unfold his long, lean frame with a kind of smooth threat that made something in Dean tighten.

Finally, Sam was standing straight, his face still turned away from Dean.

“Sam?” He croaked from his place on the floor.

He watched with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as his brother turned towards him. Even though he knew that something happened to him, seeing his face was like a sucker punch to the gut. What he saw, made him scream. 

Sam’s eyes were black, completely black. No white in them anymore. The classic sign of possession Dean had seen too many times before. He screamed again and watched, terrified beyond anything he felt before, as slowly two vertical lines appeared on Sam’s face like cursed tears slowly sliding over his pale cheeks, marking him with the darkness he carried in his eyes. The lines led from his eyes down to his jaw. They were black and thick and made Sam’s face look even more angular, making the cheekbones more pronounced. They made him look strangely... beautiful. His eyes however, black and flat, seemed dead, without any emotion in them at all. 

“Oh my God. No. Not you Sammy... oh God.” Dean couldn’t think, couldn’t even breath as he watched the... creature wearing Sam’s body move towards him.

“Kill him.” Said the older man with a kind of sick glee in his voice.

Dean thought the older man was commanding Sam. It would be a kind of irony, really, to be killed by his own brother. After the Asylum case, Sam was only too eager to prove to Dean that he would never hurt him again, and now this. Dean wasn’t blaming his brother. It wasn’t him anymore. What terrified him, was that most possessed remembered what happened. They were conscious in their bodies, without any kind of control over it. It would kill Sam to watch the demon kill him through his own hands. After loosing so much, Dean was sure that Sam wouldn’t survive it. He tried to prepare himself for whatever would happen next, when from the corner of his eye saw one of the men that beat him up before raise his gun and point it at him.

Dean knew there was no way he could avoid being shot point blank in the head. Not when he was lying on the floor with his body battered and bruised. He closed his eyes, waiting for the pain. The shot was deafening in the enclosed space of the abandoned building. He could feel a stomach churning sense of vertigo and sudden pain in his back, but it was nothing like a bullet would feel. He should know, he’d been shot enough times. 

Carefully, he pried one eye open and then gasped, not really comprehending what was happening. Somewhere between him closing his eyes and the thug pulling the trigger, he was picked up by some unseen force and pinned to a wall over 20 feet back!

His eyes flew towards his bother’s form, hoping to see his green eyes instead of those black, emotionless pits of nothing. But his eyes were still black, the long black lines still on his cheeks in a sort of dark adornment that both terrified Dean and made something inside him tighten. 

Sam’s head was cocked to the side, a slight curve to his lips.

Dean never saw his brother so predatory, even through he had all that pent up anger and rage inside, he was never this... scary. This dangerous. His whole stance, his body screamed of danger, exuded a sort of dark and intoxicating power.

He turned his alien eyes on Dean, still suspended good five feet in the air, pressed into the wall with enough force to keep him motionless, but not enough to actually hurt him. And it gave Dean hope, hope that there still was something of his brother left.

“Shouldn’t have done that.” Sam said in a deep, completely alien voice that reminded Dean of possessions, demons and so very much pain.

Sam never turned his eyes away from Dean, staring at him with something akin to surprise and then the screams started. First Dean heard the sickening crunch of a bone broken, then the man that took that shot at him, was lying on the ground, his body twisting and jerking as his limbs twisted at unnatural angles, so very obviously being broken by force none of them could see.

Dean looked down along his brother’s unnaturally still body and saw the dark silhouette of a weapon in his hand that then solidified into a gleaming silver knife he’d seen before. It was as if Sam could call it back with only his thought, as if it was the source of his power. But Dean knew better. He knew what Sam had done at Max’s house, that he moved a freakin’ cabinet with only his mind. The thought of Sam being able to do... this with only his mind suddenly seemed so much more terrifying than even before. 

And then Sam smiled, a wicked twist to his lips, making the vertical lines on his cheeks distort into a grotesque image and he raised the knife as if in a salute to Dean, before moving. He moved fast, faster than Dean had ever seen him before, but not totally beyond human capabilities.

 

 

Still suspended in the air, kept snugly against the wall, Dean watched with sickness and fear as his brother, moving incredibly gracefully and effortlessly, sliced the six remaining men up with his blade. The first one, he cut his throat so viciously, the man’s head was nearly severed. The panicked men started shooting, yet none of the bullets seemed to reach their destination. Their panic and attempts at fighting him off only seemed to amuse Sam as he picked the dead body and threw it at the closest gunman with strength that definitely surpassed what a man his weight could ever be capable of.

There was almost a sense of glee in Sam’s face that the man flinched from the blood that was still spurting in small fountains from the almost headless corpse. He slammed into the gunman, picked him up with right hand and used his left hand, the one with the cursed blade and cut him open from the abdomen up to his chest, the blade slicing easily through cloth and flesh.

Sick to his very core, Dean watched as Sam, very obviously pleased with himself, kept the man up and stared into his eyes as his insides slowly spilled out and fell to the ground with a messy plop. When the man started loosing consciousness, just seconds away from death Sam turned around to another two and waited until they realized that their bullets were useless against whatever Sam had become. As one of the remaining four turned towards the doors, the doors were shut close with an invisible force. 

“Leaving so soon?” Sam laughed in that strange, deep, alien voice and made a jerking motion with his free hand. One of the thugs gasped almost voicelessly and then, in a shower of blood, tissue and bone, his chest simply exploded, leaving behind and ugly bloody gash. 

When Sam turned towards the remaining three, they actually showed some brains and dropped the guns, raising their hands in the air, obviously begging for their lives. 

“You humans are so very pitiful... “ Snarled Sam, obviously disgusted with a lack of challenge.

He turned to the older man, who seemed a little bit rattled by the mayhem that Sam wrecked around him.

“You can’t hurt me. Not while I’m wearing the pendant.” He said smugly, smirking at Sam.

The younger man twisted his lips in a disgusted rage and four, long, deep cracks appeared in the concrete floor.

“Sam...” Dean tried to reach his brother somehow, hoped that there was still some part of him that listened. 

Strangely, Sam actually turned towards him, his eyes still black as night, with no whites visible. Still graceful and very obviously sexually aggressive, Sam made his way towards him. His hands and body was splattered with blood and gore, but he didn’t seem to mind at all. 

His flat eyes were focused on Dean, still suspended in the air. 

“Fight it Sam, please... you have to still be there. Don’t let it win, don’t let it do this...”

Sam, or whatever he was, now stood just inches away from Dean, and it took him a moment to realize that he was lowered enough to be eye level with the creature wearing his brother’s face. His feet still hadn’t touched ground, but he had a feeling that it wouldn’t have mattered anyway.

“This Sam you are calling for... he no longer exists.”

God, how it hurt to hear those words said in such a casual way. Dean could feel the stinging in his eyes intensify. He could not, would not believe it. Because if there wasn’t any hope for Sammy left, then Dean had nothing, and that was something he would never be able to stand. 

“I don’t believe you. Why did you save me if...” The creature reached with his blood covered hand and pressed his thumb into Deans lips, silencing him. Making him taste the blood.

“Because the strongest desires of the host survive. And this unfathomable need for you was almost as strong as his rage.” The demon leaned closer to him and Dean closed his eyes hating to see that changed face and black eyes;   
hating to see what had happened to his little brother, his little Sammy.

“What’s the matter?” The creature said almost gently as it rubbed away the tears Dean wasn’t aware were falling from his eyes. “Doesn’t my look please you?” There was an odd, almost confused quality to his voice. “Maybe this’ll be better?” Against himself, Dean opened his eyes and looked at the familiar, yet alien face bare inches away from him. He could only stare as the black lines, started receding back into the inky black eyes in a parody of crying and then the black contracted until it was completely hidden in pupils. The creature stared at Dean with green eyes and the smooth face of his brother, and oh God it hurt so much to look at this. His eyes however were too green, to clear, too emerald. Sam’s eyes weren’t that shade. He doubted anyone ever had eyes this stunning shade at all. Sam’s eyes were more green-blue, changing depending on what he was wearing.

“Dean,” it whispered in his brother’s voice, with his soft eyes looking right at him and it almost broke his heart, Dean so desperately tried to believe it was truth.

Sam bent down and pressed his lips to the shallow cut on Dean’s neck. He could feel the cool, wet tongue lapping at the blood, could feel the lips and then teeth worrying at the cut, making it bleed again, sting. Dean could hear the wet, sucking sounds his brother, or whatever creature was in him, was making and it confused and hurt him, making him sick down to his very core when he felt Sam’s hand on his crotch, kneading through the denim, almost making him react. Unable to move, he made half whimper half sob of protest. Sam lifted his head, his lips lightly swelled and smeared with his own blood, his face lightly flushed.

Dean stared at him knowing that Sam was going to kiss him. He also understood, with a shocking clarity, that it might be the only way, the only chance to see his brother’s face so alive, so warm and almost open, even if it was simply an illusion. So he stayed limp, no fight left in him as the creature pressed Sam’s lips to his, making him taste his own blood, pushing his tongue inside and exploring Dean’s mouth with passion and heat with odd mix of gentleness and cruelty. He let it happen, even when terrible cold started enveloping him, from his limbs up to his heart. Because he knew. 

Was sure, that the next time he would see his brother again, one of them would die.

So he let his brother kiss him, while he wept inside for the family that was destroyed. Because without Sam, there simply wouldn’t be a Winchester family anymore.

When Sam pulled back, his eyes still green, he smiled at Dean that kind, small smile of his. And Dean felt himself slip gently into comforting darkness.

 

* * *

Dean woke up in his car, slumped over the steering wheel. His body was aching in a way that said he got whupped the day before and really he hoped the other guy was much worse. Blinking the confusion and sandy dryness from his eyes, he yawned and turned towards the passenger side, ready to jerk his brother awake with a slap to his head and some kind of smart-assed remark when his eyes fell on the empty seat.

It all came back to him then, all at once in a rush of despair, pain and disbelief. He barely had the time to open the door and roll out of the Impala to his hands and knees, before throwing up everything he ate for the last week, it seemed. His insides clenched and twisted with each memory, each image of his brother killing with obvious glee, with each taste of his own blood in his mouth as Sam kissed him as no brother should. 

After what seemed like an eternity, but must have been only minutes, Dean finally regained control over his emotions. Reaching inside the car, he took out a bottle of mineral water and rinsed his mouth, pouring what was left of it over his face. In a small town like this, eight well dressed and armed men had to be noticed. He was going to learn whatever he could about the man who set up the trap for them and then get his brother back. One way or another. He knew, that Sam would rather be dead than trapped, like a slave in his own body, by whatever it was that possessed him. Dean also knew that the blade and the pendant were the key.

But first he needed to make a phone call. He had to tell their father that he failed again, that he let those bastards take his little brother away from him.

He took a deep breath, then pulled his cell phone that had miraculously survived the ordeal, and scrolled for his dad’s number.

He was simultaneously disappointed and relieved when he got voicemail.

“Dad...” He started but his voice broke and he had to try again ‘Dad... something’s happened. To Sam. He, he is gone, Dad. “He almost cried again, his eyes still stinging and throat tight when he was forced to say it aloud. “This job you sent us on, it was a set up. They... waited for us, waited for Sam. He is possessed by something I have never seen before. I don’t know what to do. He is gone and I...” He swallowed a like in his throat “I need you, Dad, oh God, help me please.”

 

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

 

 

 

Three weeks later.

 

 

Dean climbed into his father’s truck. They split up to cover more ground. They no longer investigated suspicious deaths in small, backwater towns, but any and all deaths in Los Angeles. It was always harder to con people into thinking they were FBI agents or members of the law enforcement in the big cities. Their badges were checked so much faster, and it forced them to change their identities much more often.

 

“You got something?” John asked.

 

They were long beyond any kind of greeting or conversation of any kind. After countless fights about whose fault it was, they didn’t have much to say to each other anymore. John seemed to get older by ten years day by day, the weight of the world finally visible in his slumped shoulders and darker than usual eyes.

 

Before, when Sam was gone, they knew where he was, they knew he was safe and happy, doing what he wanted, when he wanted. It was different now.  There was no hope now. For three weeks, they’d found absolutely nothing about the being that possessed Sam. And if they didn’t know what it was, they couldn’t exorcise it. That only left one option, and that made them both feel sick to their very core.

 

They would have to find Sam.

 

And kill him.

 

Because that was something Sam would have wanted. But before that, they had to do anything that was possible to save him.

 

“Two more bodies. It’s seventeen we know of.” Dean didn’t have to say more. They were running out of time, they couldn’t wait much longer. Too many people had already died. “At least they weren’t innocents. Not all of them. Mostly the shady types carrying lots of guns. I haven’t found a connection yet, but my guess is, that the guy that... started it all, wanted to make Sam into some kind of weapon and is using him, controlling him through the pendant to do his biding. Through his victims, we can find out who he is.”

 

It wasn’t anything new. They both thought about it already. But there were only two of them and whoever that older guy was, he had resources that neither of them had. Going after him would be almost an impossibility.

 

John only nodded his head.

 

“A friend of mine said he might have something. He’ll call tomorrow.”

 

“Sam’s been here for a week already. It seems he’s here to stay.” Dean offered carefully.

 

There was awkwardness between them now. Ever since he told his dad exactly what happened, John seemed distant from Dean even more so than normally. Somehow, Dean thought it was his fault. His inability to protect his brother. For the second time, he had let his dad down.

 

“So what, we wait?” Dean asked, still carefully not looking at his father.

 

“I... “John hesitated and it was such a strange, unusual thing that Dean looked at him, fearing the worst. “I want you to read something first.” John said in a quiet voice. Almost unsure of himself.

 

“What?”

 

John pulled a thin notebook from the inside of his coat.

 

“What is it?”

 

“A journal.”

 

Dean snorted, a harsh, bitter sound. “Kinda noticed it myself, Dad.”

 

John Winchester never turned his eyes at his older son when he spoke, told him things that were never supposed to be spoken aloud.

 

“You will find answers there, for questions you had for years.”

 

“What kind of questions?” Dean sensed there was something cold and painful in his father. Something old.

 

“Why Sam seemed to hate me so much.” John took a shuddering breath. “Why I forced him to leave.”

 

Dean’s breath hitched, but he stayed silent. Not really because of his loyalty and obedience to his father, that was ingrained so deep inside him it was a part of his soul now, but also because of the shock.

 

For Dean it was always Sam, his need to lead a normal life, his desire to leave them and their life that caused him to run away for college. He never really blamed their father, not like Sam seemed to do.

 

*          *          *

 

Four hours later, Dean was pacing the small motel room he and his father rented for the week. John was still out trying to track down someone who could help determine just what possessed Sam.

 

 

 

Every now and then, Dean would glance at the journal lying on the small, cheap but surprisingly ell maintained dresser. He sensed, that once he read that things would change. But maybe things already were beyond repair. With each hour that passed, with each body cut into pieces, Dean lost just a little bit of hope that Sam could be rescued.

 

He remembered Sam’s final words before he took the knife:

 

_“I love you Dean. Tell Dad... tell Dad that I forgave him a long time ago. He was wrong, but I understand.”_

 

Finally, he took the journal and opened it. The entries had no dates, and there weren’t many of them but his father’s handwriting seemed even worse than normal and it spoke a lot about his state of mind then.

He started reading.

 

//

  _Oh My God, my hands are shaking so much I can barely hold the pen. We are in a small town, Hobsonville, Ms and my word has just shifted on its axis._

_The boys are with me on this hunt, it’s good for their training. Sam’s fifteen already. He is taller that Dean by three inches already and I can tell my firstborn hates that fact with everything he has. Dean, at nineteen turned out to be one hell of a man. I am so proud of him. He is a strong, handsome man with quick mind. He is everything that I expected of him, and so much more. I just wish I was a better father and managed to give my boys a real life, not this constant fight._

//

 

Dean had to stop and blink a few times. He never knew. Never knew just how his father felt about him, like Dean, John Winchester never talked about his feelings.

 

//

_Today is Thursday, our usual sparring day. It all started normally. Sam was at a local supermarket buying us some food for the upcoming road trip and Dean and I decided to start the sparring earlier. Dean was always willing, all cocky attitude and smart mouth. He was also getting better in hand to hand combat, managing to throw me to the ground half the time._

 

Sam had the misfortune to open the door just as Dean slipped and I managed to deliver him a pretty tough blow, sending him sprawling on the floor. It was never my intention to actually hit him that bad, but he was getting so good I forgot to be careful.

_That wasn’t however what shocked me. It was Sam, who dropped the groceries to the floor and in a matter of seconds was kneeling over his brother, checking him for injuries. When Dean batted him off, simultaneously cupping his hurting jaw and groaning as much in pain as in embarrassment, Sam looked up. Straight at me and I had to take a step back. His eyes were not his own. They were dark, hard and burning with so much hatred it made me gasp._

_I knew, that in that moment, if I tried to approach Dean in any way, Sam would have attacked me. And it wouldn’t have been sparring. So I stood there, shocked and speechless and Sam stroked his brother in a disturbingly familiar and possessive way, checking if he was okay and where it hurt. I listened to Dean’s annoyed grunts. He obviously didn’t notice what was going on between me and Sam._

_“You hit him.” it was said slowly, carefully as if Sam had trouble speaking without his rage spilling out. “You hurt him.”_

_“Hey!” called Dean pulling himself into a sitting position “Easy there tiger, it’s just sparring.” Dean obviously missed the fire in his younger brother’s eyes or the way I was forced to keep my distance. I watched Dean ruffle Sam’s hair and get a “jerk” in response. If it was me who tried to touch Sam, I would have my hand bitten off and a screaming match they could hear in the next state. Funny, I never before realized that Sam hated me._

//

 

There were two round marks under this entry. Tears.

 

Dean stared at the words. They were wrong, so very wrong. Sam never hated their father, not for real. Yeah, he had

the angry teenager routine down to an art, but it was only a phase he was going through. Granted, he finally chose to lead a normal life, one without hunting, without constantly being on the road, without the cheap motels, pain and fighting. But he still loved their father. Because no matter how Sam hated their life, he still came back when Dean asked him for help in finding Dad. His father was wrong, read too much into it.

 

//

_At first I thought I was overreacting. After that incident in Hobsonville nothing happened fort a while, or maybe I didn’t want to see it. I noticed how possessive Sam was of Dean, how he tried to spend all his time with him, how he tried to always stand between me and Dean. It hurt. God, it hurt to realize Sam, in his own way, was trying to cut me of from my eldest son, to maybe protect him from me and everything I brought with myself._

_But today all my hopes that I was overreacting were torn to shreds. It was a night like any other, a poltergeist driven out with only a few bruises left as a souvenirs._

_We were all sharing one room. It was hard to maintain any kind of privacy,y so when Dean emerged in a cloud of steam, from the small bathroom, clad only in a towel slung low on his hips, I didn’t give it much thought. I was satisfied to notice that Dean didn’t have much bruising on his back from the fall. Just as I was turning my attention back to my journal, I caught a glance at Sam. His face was flushed, his lips slightly parted and his eyes fixated on Dean’s body with an expression on his face I didn’t want to name. I couldn’t, wouldn’t believe it._

_I barely managed to leave the room before I slid to my knees. Oh God, how could I have failed my sons so badly?!_

//

 

Dean’s brow furrowed. He honestly didn’t understand what his father was writing about. He flipped through some pages ignoring the strange feeling in his gut. He just..., he didn’t want to think too deeply about what his father implied. But every other entry he read was worse, was even more... detailed.

 

//

_... I caught Sam watching Dean and his latest conquest making out in his car. My youngest son was standing hidden in the shadows, watching the two entwined figures in the car. The expression on his face was so clear. What scared me more than him watching Dean have sex, was that he wasn’t ashamed. There was desire, lust, on his face. Anger probably directed at the woman, but there was no shame. Even when he turned back towards the motel and saw me watching him, he never turned his eyes down. He didn’t care if I knew. Maybe even he wanted me to know. I can’t understand him, sometimes Sam is like an alien creature to me. How can’t he see, understand that it’s wrong? That they are brothers, the same flesh, the same blood! Why does he have to throw it in my face so much, daring me to say something? I can’t. Can’t confront him about this. It would mean I acknowledged it, and God help me I wanted to pretend I haven’t seen it, never knew it._

//

 

Another few pages, and Dean noticed his hands shaking.

 

//

It’s been almost a year. Sam is getting more bold, more desperate maybe. He is actually flirting with Dean, but my eldest doesn’t notice it. It’s a blessing he stays so oblivious to his little brother’s attempts at seduction. Because that’s what Sam is doing. His sudden eagerness to train hand to hand combat, to practice different weapons... it has only one reason. To make Dean touch him. Sam is nothing if not stubborn and I am afraid that one day, Dean will finally notice Sam. The damage it would wreck would be beyond repair. If there is one thing that keeps this family together, it’s Dean. He is the protector of this family, only he acts like a buffer between me and Sam. It would destroy Dean, I’m sure of it.

_The hostility between me and my youngest son has reached a level that scares even me. I can feel it, his rage boiling just under the surface waiting to lash out and make me bleed. Maybe even literally. It took me some time, but I think that this anger is not for Sam. It’s for Dean and what this life has done to him. Dean has sacrificed everything for my crusade, let go of his dreams, of his own desires to be a good soldier and a good son. I know it and I am grateful beyond words. I sometimes wonder if Dean is blaming me for all this, but he will never tell, never show his emotions. In some strange way, Sam took on himself the role of his brother’s avenging angel and hates me for all the hurts Dean suffered because of me. I see his eyes burn at me in deadly silence every time Dean comes hurt from a hunt, hear it in the screaming matches that seemed to replace any kind of conversation between us, feel it in the way he doesn’t let me touch him in the simplest ways._

//

 

With shaking hands Dean opened the journal on the last page. Only two entries there.

 

//

I confronted Sam today. I made sure that Dean would be away on a hunt of his own and cornered Sam about... his feelings. I was never good with emotions or sensitive matters, and lost the ability talk after Mary died. Still, I didn’t expect it to be this bad. We not only screamed at each other, it even came to blows. I never realized just how good a punch Sam could deliver in anger. It took me almost ten minutes and severely bruised ribs before I subdued him enough to make him listen. 

//

 

Dean stared at the words not comprehending them at all. Sam hit their father? It was so... beyond Sam’s character that it was almost impossible. He thought he knew his brother, the gentle almost shy guy that took life too seriously. He never saw this angry, determined and almost cruel young man that their dad saw in Sam.

 

//

_... no matter what I said, it didn’t work. Incest. He only snarled in my face that if I stayed in one place long enough to give them a chance to develop any kind of relationship with other people, this maybe wouldn’t have happened. And really, how could I fight it? It was the truth. My boys, all they ever had was themselves, because I was never good for much of anything besides hunting demons._

He had no fear of me, no need for my approval it seemed. Sam didn’t really care what I had to say, what I thought about it and that hurt. Hurt so much I thought my heart would break. For every logical argument, he had a dozen of ripostes, each one better than the previous one. It was scary just how well prepared for this conversation he was. It took me some time to realize that he probably had this discussion with himself a hundred times before.

_Finally I used the only leverage I had. The only thing that would cut through to Sam; that would hurt him. I used Dean against him. I told him what would happen if Dean ever learned about Sam’s feelings. What would he do? How would he react if he didn’t share those feelings? And let’s face it, if Dean had, he would have said or done something already. His obliviousness was a clear sign that he would never be interested in his brother that way._

_What would Dean do? He would blame himself, because his Sammy was the most precious thing in his life and he was the one to raise Sam, maybe even more than me. It would tear him apart, break him beyond repair. I asked Sam if he wanted that for Dean. Wanted him to look at Sam and every time think “What did I do wrong?”. Dean could never refuse his little brother, both me and Sam knew it perfectly well. He would do anything for him. What if he pushed himself into something that would make him hate himself inside because of that need to protect, to give Sammy whatever he wanted, whatever Dean could provide?_

//

 

Dean closed his eyes and took a deep shuddering breath. He didn’t understand how could he miss something as big as that? How... could he not notice?

 

He remembered what Sam said after the... thing... possessed him.

 

“Because the strongest desires of the host survive. And this unfathomable need for you was almost as strong as his rage.”

 

Only now he understood just what the creature was talking about.

 

//

_God, it hurt me as much as it hurt Sam. It was like cutting him with a knife and twisting it for a good measure. Sam’s face became completely white in a matter of seconds, so fast I was afraid he would faint. I let him go and he curled on the floor and shook. No tears or words, just this silent shaking. It hurt me to do this to him, it proved to me what a horrible father I was, how I have let down both of my boys. I tried to touch him, offer some kind of comfort. But he shrugged my hand away. I think that I lost my right to touch him then and there. Trying to protect one son, I lost the other._

_Sam left the room._

_He came back four days later, colder, more focused. He only said two words to me then._

_“You won.”_

_It seemed I did, but winning has never hurt this much before._

//

 

Only one, last entry left. Dean was afraid of what he would see there, because he already knew.

 

//

_Sam left for college today. I told him to never come back. And he left._

_Now I sit in the small kitchen, staring at the half empty bottle of Jack Daniels and listen to my older son retching in the bathroom. Sam was so much better man than I could ever be. The moment I saw him leave though the door, I knew that his feelings for Dean weren’t just lust or confused affection. He loved Dean, was in love with him enough to let him go._

_He did something I was never good enough to do, maybe too selfish. He loved Dean enough to set him free. I never did that for my children._

_I’m crying, and I haven’t cried since Mary died. I hope Dean never learns about this mess. He is all that I have left. And I know that he will never forgive me. He was always the protector of this family, it’s about time he was protected for once._

_I listen to the silence in the apartment and wonder if it’ll ever be better. Without Sammy here? I doubt it. I look at the bottle again. Mary would have hated me for the harm I’ve caused our children._

//

 

Dean let the journal fall to the floor. He buried his face in his hands and shook. He was too shocked to cry or do anything else. His stomach was churning from all the emotions that were running through him.

 

He sat there for hours, curled in on himself, trying to understand, to forgive. Eventually, he put the lights down and laid down on his bed, his mind spinning too much to do anything than close his eyes and lie there in darkness. He wondered if he knew his little brother at all, if he knew his father. How could he be so blind? How?

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

 

The dawn found John Winchester sitting on his untouched bed and staring at his eldest son’s back as he slept. John came back somewhere in the middle of the night, making sure Dean was asleep before coming in. He stared at the handsome, strong man that his son had become and wondered if he lost him also. He wondered if it was the right thing to do, to show Dean the journal. But, he figured that Dean deserved to know after what happened in that abandoned building. After Sam, the creature that possessed him, kissed Dean and said that something of the host remains. 

“He forgave you.” Dean said in a sleep roughened voice. He turned to look at his father noticing how haggard he looked. “He said that to me before he reached for that cursed knife. That you were wrong, but he forgave you long ago. He understood.”

John shuddered violently and rubbed his face with his hand.

“Oh God.”

Dean pulled himself up into a sitting position. He was pale and had dark circles under his eyes.

“Can you forgive me?” Asked John.

Dean looked up at his father, disturbed to hear the broken tone in his voice. He stared at his father for a long, long time. It hurt so damn much when Sam suddenly announced he was going off to college. Dean never understood why Sam left, why wasn’t he, their family, enough for Sammy. Now, he at least knew.

He also knew something more. From the journal, he learned so much more about his father, saw it black on white, that his dad would fight for him, that he did fight for Dean and even tried to protect him in his own way. 

Finally, Dean moved to his father’s side and did something he hasn’t done in years. Simply hugged him, hard and long burying his face in the crook of his neck in a way he hadn’t done since he was a very small child.

“It’s okay, Dad. It’s okay. Now... we have a chance at least. A lure for Sam”

“A lure?”

Dean pulled back and looked into his father’s dark eyes.

“Me, Dad.” Dean said, his heart lighter now that he had something to work with.

John still stared at him, uncomprehending.

“Something of the host survives, and when did you last see Sam let go of something?” Den smiled. “He’ll come to me.”

John stared at his son’s happy face and wondered if it really was such a good thing? What Sam kept in check for the sake of his brother, the demon wouldn’t.

“Dean... you understand what it might mean?”

His son smiled, no fear in him, only calm conviction.

“It’s Sammy, Dad. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him.”

Somehow, that statement didn’t reassure John one bit.

 

* * *

 

Finding a real witch in Los Angeles proved to be much easier than he expected. A friend of a friend of somebody he helped a while ago knew one that actually knew what she was doing, besides conning stupid little schoolgirls that came for love spells.

There wasn’t such a thing as a love spell, but there was something close to it and that was what Dean came for. A spell that was similar to the spell a succubus would cast. Just not as powerful.

If he wanted to lure Sam to him pretending to be... receptive, he needed it to look really good or it wouldn’t work. He thought about it long and hard, and he couldn’t imagine Sam touching him in a sexual way. Couldn’t even think about sex with him. It was just... gross. They were brothers!

But the journal opened his eyes to some things, some ways that Sam acted and Dean had always chalked it up to his brother’s sulky disposition. Still, he carefully refused to think just what it was Sam wanted. His mind still balked at the image, so he didn’t think about it. If only Sam had adopted that rule, his life would be so much easier. If you can’t deal with something, don’t think about it! Dean always lived in the here and now, because in their line of work tomorrow might never come, so what good it would bring to think too much about what could happen? 

He refused to admit to the nervous fluttering in the pit of his stomach as he waited for the witch to come back with supplies. He already put the picture of Sam he held in his wallet and his brother’s tee-shirt on the table in front of him.

Finally, a middle aged woman with horrible makeup emerged from behind the curtain. 

“I have to tell you, this is the first time somebody has asked to have a spell cast on himself. Definitely, a first in my book. And a desire spell? On somebody as young as you?” She totted “What a shame. So young and already can’t get it up!”

Dean bared his teeth at her, leaning over the table enough for her to see the gun in his shoulder holster.

“Shut up witch and do your thing. Unlike your other clients, I know just who you are and what would hurt you the most.” He casually reached for one of the jars she had lined up on the shelves. Most of them were just props really, meant to scare and disturb her gullible clients. But a few were real, powerful and so very expensive herbs that would really hurt her to lose. 

“Be careful!” She shrieked when he pretended the jar slipped from his fingers.

“Oops! Clumsy me.” He said staring her right in the eye. He really didn’t have time for petty games right now. 

Her face twisted in anger but she subsided, finally understanding that crossing Dean right now wouldn’t be a good idea. 

“Okay, okay! I’ll do what you want.” She started mixing some herbs murmuring under her breath. There were no flashes of white nor any kind of noise. Just the sound of cars passing on the outside and the faint echo of a stereo from the apartment above. 

“I understand the spell is for you. Who is it about?” She asked, all business now.

He gestured the things on the table. She took the picture first and studied it with narrowed eyes.

“He is your brother.” 

So maybe she was really a witch, because he didn’t tell her that. Dean only raised his brown in a ‘so what?’ gesture.

She nodded, accepting that it obviously wasn’t her business and reached for the tee-shirt. As soon as she touched it, she jerked her hand back with a curse and a hiss.

“Shit.” She cradled her hand against her chest and stared at the piece of clothing as if it had sported a head and pair of tentacles. “Shit.” She said again.

Dean failed to mention that Sam was now possessed by a demon, didn’t think it was important. He was now changing his mind.

“Your brother is very powerful. There is no way I will be able to touch him with any of my spells.”

“But the spell is for me. Can you still do it?” 

She looked at him considering.

“You are very serious about it?”

“Yes.” 

“Fine. But I can’t touch the cloth, so you have to cut of a piece of it.” She gave him scissors and he cut off a piece of sleeve.

“Now what?” He asked holding the scrap of clothing in his hand.

She put a candle on the table.

“Burn it.”

When the cloth caught fire, she sprinkled some more herbs over it murmuring words Dean didn’t really want to hear. When the smoke became thick and kind of sweet smelling, she took his hand and poised it over the smoke. He felt a shiver run over him as she touched the leather bracelet on his wrist. 

“There. The spell is bound by the bracelet. When you want to break it, just take it off and burn it.” She instructed already busy putting everything away.

He blinked, surprised how easy it was. Surprised that he didn’t feel any different.

“That’s it?” he asked a little bit confused.

The witch scowled at him.

“What did you expect? Lightning bolts? A chorus of angels? Fireworks? If I could do that, you think I would be selling fake love potions?”

Feeling sheepish, Dean ducked his head and gathered his things.

The witch watched him in silence. When he turned towards the door, she called after him. He stopped, having a feeling she wanted to tell him something important.

“Your brother has a lot of power. Angry, raw power. But just because it’s powerful and scary, it doesn’t mean it has to be evil.”

He looked at her in silence for a minute considering her words. But in the end, it didn’t matter if what took Sam was evil or not. He just wanted to have Sam back. And if it required him to get fucked by his little bro’ then hell, he would be on his back so fast…

* * *

The witch watched him go and wondered if the boy knew just what he himself was. Because she sure as hell had no fucking idea.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

 

Dean wanted to check if the spell worked, wanted to see if his theory was true, that Sam would come after him. Straight from the witch, he headed for a bar he scoped out earlier. Just his kind of thing, with a side room with a pool table. It was in an industrial part of town, far away from the heavily populated area and with clientele that looked, but never saw anything. Just what he needed.

He strolled in, inhaling the smoke and the unique scent that seemed to always be a part of places like this. He got himself a beer and headed for the pool table. It was empty at this hour. Good. He would have a chance to play a game or two by himself.

He shrugged the leather jacket off and reached for the triangle. He dressed carefully for this occasion. Black tee just a little bit too tight, his most favorite, torn pair of jeans that hugged his ass in the most complimentary way. Smirking, he stretched himself over the table with the cue. Time get the show started.

Three hours later, he’d won two hundred dollars and still there was no sign of Sam. Maybe he expected too much from Sam to know where he is. It could also mean that Sam was watching him and that he was perfectly aware that he and Dad were trying to find a way to exorcise or kill him. If Sam indeed came, it would be like dancing with the Devil. 

His hand shook a bit when he reached for the white ball. It occurred to him, now, in this dingy bar that he missed Sam. Missed his whining about the way Dean got their money, missed the silent companionship, he even missed the eye rolls that just screamed of brotherly frustration.

Suddenly, he heard the door separating the playing area from the bar itself close. The air changed in the room, becoming heavy with anticipation and silence. The muffled sound of people in the other room faded into the background as Dean recognized the soft footsteps approaching him. He stilled, froze completely halfway through the move of hitting the white ball with the cue. The steps were soft, achingly familiar, yet so different now.

“You playing for money?” Asked the voice he’d known for 22 years. God, but it twisted something inside him, made his eye sting and his hand shake. 

Sam.

“Yeah.” He croaked, making it a point not to look at his brother. He still had nightmares about Sam’s face with those horrible black lines. He didn’t want to see it again so soon.

He felt Sam come closer, stand behind him so close he could feel the heat of his body. His heartbeat accelerated, warmth spread through his body and damn, but the spell was working already because he was getting half hard from simply having Sam close.

The younger man pulled a fifty and put it on the edge of the table. Dean watched the long -fingered hand put the bill and then smooth it lightly with the tips of his fingers. There was something undeniably erotic about this move, about the way Sam’s hand rested on the wooden edge of the table, their fingers touching. There was a kind of aggressive, dark sexuality in the way Sam stood behind him, so close he could feel the heat of his body through his clothes, yet far enough away that they weren’t actually touching.

“Wanna play?” Dean asked hoarsely, his throat so dry he was amazed he managed to speak the words at all.

“Yes.” The word was spoken so close to his ear, he felt the moist puffs of air on his skin. It sent shivers down his spine, straight to his cock. 

His mind was confused. His body reacted with desire so strong, he could almost taste it, but logically, he knew it was his brother and that he didn’t feel this way. But he trained himself to accept his physicality a long time ago. It was scary, how easy it was to shut his mind off and act like Sam was one of his many conquests. At least for now.

He would do anything for his brother. Even this.

He watched Sam move towards the cues. He was dressed completely in black. Black jeans, black shirt and leather duster reaching down to his ankles. It looked surprisingly good on his lean brother. It looked hot, and Dean fought back the wave of confusion and disgust that threatened to overwhelm him.

“You start.” He offered as he watched Sam stroke his long fingered hand over one of the cues, his fingers barely touching it before he pulled it out of its holder. When Sam turned towards him, he was relieved to see that there were no black lines on his face now. His eyes were still too green, too vivid for them to be really human, but he could live with it. Just not that darkness.

Dean didn’t really remember the game. The moves were automatic, the game only a blur. What he remembered though, was the way his brother moved, the way he stretched his long body over the green table to reach the perfect angle, the way his eyes barely ever left Dean, they way his skin seemed to almost glow in the relative darkness of the room. He remembered the way Sam would brush against him when they moved around the table, like it was some kind of intricate dance. He remembered only the pounding of his heart, the roar of his blood in his ears and Sam’s utter silence. Beyond the few words spoken between them at the beginning, Sam didn’t make a sound. When he moved, his clothes didn’t rustle, his footsteps were quieter than any man’s should ever be and it unnerved Dean. Because he seemed to drown in the thunder of his blood, his fear, his unwanted desire. 

Dean watched the last ball fall into the pocket. It terrified him.

“It seems I won.” He didn’t quite manage his trademark smirk as he pocketed the money.

Moving faster than any human could, Sam was there suddenly, barely inches from him. One pale hand caught Dean’s wrist in a careful but strong grip, the other still held loosely along his body. Not an attack then.

“I know what you are trying to do.” Sam said in a deep, dark voice, his lips so close to Dean’s ear he could feel the air displaced by their movements.

Sam used the advantage of his height, his body almost enveloping Dean, and hell if it didn’t make him harder than before, his jeans now uncomfortably tight. 

Before he gathered his wits enough to answer, he felt Sam’s hand move towards his waist, down his back until it rested on the handle of the small dagger carefully hidden in the belt. 

“You can’t kill me.” Sam tightened his hand on Dean’s wrist and flattened his other against his back, as if daring him to move, to try to escape. “You can’t exorcise me.” He licked the flesh just beneath Dean’s ear. “This.” He pressed harder on the dagger. “This can’t hurt me. Nothing can.”

“I’m not here to kill you.” Dean said, his voice roughened beyond any recognition. 

Sam smiled, but it was cold and twisted. Barely a curl to his lips that didn’t reach his flat, dead eyes.

 

“Oh really? Then why did you put yourself here as a bait for me?”

This was it. Fight or flight moment. Because somehow he knew, that Sam would actually let him escape if he wanted it enough. But he didn’t. He wasn’t going to abandon his brother. Not now, not ever.

“Because of this.” He answered surging forward, his free hand gripping the back of Sam’s head and pulling him down into a kiss that was all teeth and power and hunger. Sam’s lips parted under the assault and with a low growl he attacked Dean with as much fervor. Their teeth clashed, tongues dueled. Dean felt a trickle of saliva or maybe blood, run down his mouth and pushed, making Sam lean over the table backwards, he twisted his hand tree and fisted it into Sam’s shirt pulling him closer, needing to feel his heat, needing to feel that solid, hard chest under his hands, under his body.

Some part of his mind replayed the way Sam killed those men that tried to kill Dean, how ruthlessly and efficiently he gutted them, killed them. He remembered the raw power he saw in his brother, and it gave him a sudden rush to realize that, for that brief moment, he was controlling it. That he had that power in his hands and it complied, molded itself for him, under him, into him. 

There was hunger in Sam’s kiss. Hunger and desperation and need. Need that could scorch him if he wasn’t careful. But how could he be careful with his brother’s arms scratching at his back even through the tee, Dean could feel him leaving angry, stinging marks behind. He pulled back from the kiss, his mouth found the long neck and he bit down, hard in revenge, scraping his teeth along the tendons he found there.

It exhilarated him when Sam actually leaned back, tilted his head back to give him more access. It was power, pure and simple now twisted in his hands. And for a moment, for a brief heartbeat of hope he forgot it was his brother’s body possessed by something he didn’t know, didn’t understand and feared. He just felt, tasted the salty skin and sweat, smelled the scent of leather, soap and this something that was undoubtedly male.

It wouldn’t be the first time he was with a man, although he didn’t make it a habit of it. Men were sometimes a welcome distraction, but they too often wanted to dominate, to be the one in control and in bed, Dean was the only one to be on top. But when he felt his bother’s hands grip his shoulder in a strong, bruising grip and spin him around, until it was him pressed into the unforgiving wood, Dean thought that it might actually change tonight. It didn’t matter though. There were many reasons, most important that there was reason for it all and if it’ll help him get his brother back, he’d do it and so, so much more. He doubted if Sam understood when Dean told him there was nothing he wouldn’t do for him. Sometimes Dean didn’t want to know either. 

He felt Sam’s lips on his jaw, teeth scraping his skin gently, the tongue rasping over his stubble. The room was quiet except for their harsh breathing and the rustle of clothing. He tried very hard not to think that it wasn’t really Sam touching him, that it was a creature, a demon within him. As long as this knowledge stayed on the edges of his consciousness, everything was all right. 

Dean pushed Sam back, making him let go of his neck, even though he knew a mark was already there. His cock was hard and aching, his heart was trying to beat itself out of his chest. He could feel his lips swell from the rough kisses, becoming fuller and redder.

Sam often teased him about his ego. And maybe he did have an ego blown out of proportion, but all those women fawning over him kept it inflated nicely. Dean was perfectly aware of how he looked, of the way people looked at him. His clothing, his haircut, his body language always conformed to their looks, their want. It was much easier to win in pool when your partner was staring at your ass or hands, instead of the cue. He knew that and he knew how to use it.

Forcing himself to meet the too green, almost luminescent eyes, Dean licked his lips slowly and then planted both his hands on the edge of the pool table and lifted himself up. He did it slowly, making his biceps bunch and stretch as he slowly dragged himself on the tabletop, his hips pushing forwards for a moment making the bulge in his jeans just that much more prominent.

When he was sitting on the edge, strangely aroused by the way Sam’s green eyes watched his body as if memorizing every single ridge, every plane, Dean curled one leg under himself and slowly, still staring at Sam crawled backwards, till he was in the center of the table. He noticed the way his brother’s lips parted and tongue snaked out as if mimicking his own gestures. His not so little brother grabbed both his ankles and slowly, never taking his eyes from Dean’s face, pulled his legs apart on the green cloth. Dean could feel the heat of his hands searing him even through the layer of denim.

His breath hitched as Sam, using those freakishly long limbs of his, started slowly crawling on the table on his hands and knees, straight into the v that his legs created. His movements were slow, deliberate and predatory. His too-long hair fell into his eyes obscuring them in shadows, the muscles of his arms bunched up in all the beautiful ways and Dean had to swallow a groan, because fuck, but that witch knew what she was doing with her spell.

Now, more than ever, Dean had to acknowledge just how much taller his brother was. The way he kneeled above him, his body clad in the clinging, black cotton obscuring the light, hiding them in shadows. Sam leaned in, so close he was almost touching Dean’s lips with his own and stopped. Waiting. So completely still it made Dean feel as if he was vibrating with tension himself.

 

He wasn’t going to wait, he wasn’t the one to be passive, so he reached up, tangling his hand in the shaggy hair that seemed to have a life of its own and pulled down, masking their lips together, forcing the taller man to lay on him, wanting to feel the weight, the heat. In that moment, when Sam pushed his knee higher into the juncture of Dean’s legs, pressing it into the aching cock resting there Dean was sure. Sure beyond any logic, that Sam was still there somewhere. Because the demon or whatever it was wanted Dean and if it was only it, that it wouldn’t have hesitated, just took whatever it wanted. This however was hot and desperate and needy, but from the way his brother controlled the fierce power Dean saw him use before, it was proof that he didn’t want to hurt Dean. No demon could be this human.

Sam moved till his right hand rested on the table above Dean’s head, his lips fastened tightly on Dean’s neck worrying the side of his neck to the point of pleasurable pain. His other hand slid down, over Dean’s heaving chest, his hip towards the raised leg. Sam pulled it higher, making Dean make space for him between his legs and gripped the back of Dean’s thighs with bruising force. Sam shifted once more and, Jesus Christ, Dean’s eyes rolled back as he felt the hard, delicious press of a hard cock against his aching one.

His younger brother moved slowly, his hips thrusting hard and slow into him, sending shock after shock of pleasure through him. Dean fisted his hand in the longish hair harder, pulling his mouth up to his, thrusting his tongue inside, tasting seeking anything, everything. He needed so much, felt too much and his brain was turning into mush. All he knew right there was that he needed flesh, bare flesh or he would go insane. Using his free hand, he pulled and tugged at the offending shirt until he had it out of Sam’s jeans and his hand slid under the cloths finally touching the heated skin he longed for. He opened his mouth wider and lifted his hips pressing harder into Sam’s seeking the maddening friction. He felt saliva run down his cheek but didn’t care. He felt the hot skin under his calloused palm, felt the muscles shift and bunch with every slow circle of Sam’s hips, felt his tongue, cool and slick and agile in his mouth. He was so close to coming, the tension in his balls coiling and heating his whole body and he knew that he just needed that something more to come. It was all so wrong, so dirty and hot and he didn’t care beyond the pulsing in his dick. He curled his fingers, blunt nails digging into the silky skin and then he pulled his hand down, scratching the whole length of Sam’s back hard enough to draw blood.

His brother cursed and arched up, stretching his long, long neck, his eyes closed and face twisted in pleasure so great it was almost pain. With a shudder and a groan he came, his hips jerking once, twice against Dean before he lowered his head, his green eyes now much darker, his face flushed and lips parted, wet and swollen. He was, in that moment, the most beautiful, hottest thing Dean had ever seen. Without a word, his eyes still glued to Dean’s, he slid his hand along Dean’s hips and then over his flat, hard stomach under the waistband of his jeans and underwear. His fingers found the straining cock there and closed over it.

It was enough, just the feel of those hot fingers on his dick was enough to send Dean over the edge, and he cursed as he felt his whole body clench and pulse as he spurted load after load of come. His vision grayed out for a moment and his body relaxed into boneless stupor. He didn’t remember ever coming this hard in his life.

Sam, possessed or not, was waiting for him calmly, patiently, still leaning on his elbow, not wanting to smother Dean to death. He was slowly licking the sweat from Dean’s face. Little, cat-like licks over his chin, his eyebrows, his forehead.

When Dean came back to himself enough to open his eyes, he saw the same green, almost emerald eyes staring at him with some kind of emotion. He couldn’t read it but was definitely better than the dead, flat eyes he saw before. Sam smiled at him, that mysterious half smirk that was nothing like the honest, beautiful laugh Sam was capable of and then pulled his hand from Dean’s jeans. Slowly, still staring him in the eye, Sam lifted the hand to his lips and flicked his tongue over the come-stained finger. He made a show if putting into his mouth and sucking, hollowing his cheeks and making dirty sucking noises.

“Jesus.” Was all Dean could say. 

A still smirking Sam popped the finger out of his mouth and pressed another one to Dean’s lips, forcing it slowly past the soft lips, making Dean taste himself.

Dean only parted his lips letting him, tasting himself and Sam on the finger. He licked it, flicking his tongue over it gently, but suggestively. Sam pulled the finger out and leaned down for another kiss, this one slower, gentler as he was satisfied for a moment. His tongue pressed into Dean’s mouth and sought out any and all traces of taste there, possessing Dean in way’s he didn’t yet understand.

Finally he pulled back, his body tensing.

Dean saw Sam’s eyes become black for a moment, the whites disappearing. Before he had the time to react, the black contracted and Sam looked back at him with green eyes. Dean found out that when he looked like that, just like his brother, it was hard to remember that it wasn’t Sam, not really. 

“I must go.” There was a trace of genuine regret in his voice.

Dean watched as Sam rolled of the table with ease and grace he never had before, watched him pull the coat on again and decided to test his theory a bit more, see if the creature was willing to share something with him. If it would trust him.

“Does it hurt?” He asked rolling himself to the edge of the table.

Sam turned to look at him without any expression.

“What?”

Dean looked at him and said slowly, “The eyes. Does it hurt to keep the black hidden?”

Sam looked at him from beneath the longish hair, his face as unreadable as before. He was still, and that stillness was what unnerved Dean the most. No human could be this absolutely still.

“Yes.” Came the unexpected answer.

“Then why do you do it?”

He tilted his head back, letting the hair fall from his forehead exposing his eyes for Dean.

“Because that’s what you want to see.”

Dean exhaled slowly.

“You don’t have to.”

Sam tilted his head to the side, so very obviously taken aback by Dean’s behavior.

“Why?” This time it was Sam who asked.

Dean didn’t have to pretend honesty this time.

“Because I want you to come back.”

Sam didn’t answer, but Dean knew that the message has been delivered. Sam would come to him again. 

tbc


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Dean opened the motel door, pretending not to notice just how badly his hand was shaking. The adrenaline in his system stopped working some time ago and the enormity of what he had done was hovering on the edges of his consciousness. He wasn’t allowing himself to think about it yet. He still had things to do, excuses to use before he had to face the events of this night.

“Dean? Where have you been? Your cell was turned off and I was worried...” John trailed of when he caught the first good look at his older son. His lips were swollen and his neck was covered in hickeys and bruises no doubt left by somebody’s mouth. His clothes were in a slight disarray, like he hadn’t had much time to straighten them. He had the ‘just fucked’ look, the one John had seen on him countless of times after Dean managed to pick up a date; which was almost every night. This time however things were different, too serious for him to go cruising for a date, while his brother was possessed, when every moment counted. 

The realization of who exactly was with Dean was enough to have him up and in front of Dean in a quarter of a second. He grabs Dean by his arms so hard he knows there will be bruises tomorrow.

“Sam?” 

Dean found he couldn’t really face his father right now. Not with his lips still swollen from the harsh kisses, not with his body still thrumming with echoes of sexual satisfaction and the evidence of it still sticky inside his pants.

“Dean? Answer me.” It was an order, something the younger Winchester had to respond to.

“Yeah.” He answered not looking at his father, his eyes focused on the pot above his shoulder.

There was silence between them. A heavy one, filled with unasked questions and answers that were better not given. John didn’t really want to see it, to know what had happened between his sons.

“How?” John finally asked, his voice so hoarse, almost broken, it made Dean flinch. He sounded just like he had those first years after Mary had died. 

Dean pushed himself away from his father. Slowly but with unmistakable intent. John had to let him go because he might be Dean’s father and that gave him a lot of power over Dean, but his older son was a strong man in his own right. One with temper to boot, and their situation was bad enough without a fight.

Dean straightened suddenly, his green eyes fastening on John’s own eyes; they were filled with determination and strength. Dean’s eyes told John more than a thousand words could, made him really hear what his older so was trying to say to him earlier. He would do anything for Sam.

Anything.

There wasn’t a thing he could do to stop Dean from doing it anyway. What pained John the most was that he really wasn’t sure he wanted to.   
There was so much force in Dean’s eyes, so much passion, love and pain, John had to look away.

“You want to know what happened? Fine, I’ll tell you.” Dean took a step closer till he was almost nose to nose with his father. “I found a real witch here in L.A. Got her to do a little creative spelling.” He raised his arm to shake the leather bracelet “I made her put an infatuation spell on me. Because I needed Sam to believe me, believe that I wanted him the same way he wanted me. Then I went to a seedy little bar and played pool, waiting for Sam. Because after reading that journal you gave me, I knew he wouldn’t just go away. If there was even a part of him still left, he would be here, watching me. Waiting. Because Sam never let’s go of anything.”

John had to close his eyes.

“He is no longer Sam, not the person you knew, Dean.” He said gently, fearing the way Dean was talking about Sam. Their Sammy was possessed. He wasn’t responsible for what that creature did while wearing his body.

Dean looked at him with a kind of horrified conviction.

“He came Dad. I was right. He came to me.” The words were almost spat out at him.

“And you let him... God Dean, it’s not your brother anymore! How could you...”

“Let him fuck me?” Interrupted Dean, his words hot and angry, challenging John to do anything about it. “You want to know? I will tell you why I let him fuck me tonight and I will do it for however long it takes.” He stared at John with fire in his eyes, breathing harshly, his fists closed tightly “Because at least I know where he is! At least I have him with me! And it’s much more that you have done!”

The words hung heavy and bitter between them. John felt the weight of guilt on him again. Yes, it was his fault he knew that. He sent them on that case that turned out to be a set up.

Dean turned sharply around, his hands scratching his head sharply, palms rubbing his face as he sat down heavily on one of the beds.

“Shit.” He said slowly, with feeling.

John just stared at his hands, not really sure what to say.

“I didn’t mean it this way Dad, I just...” Dean started but stopped when his father raised his hand at him.

“No, you are right. I should have known better than to trust that man, should have checked the story better. He said all the things I wanted to hear, all the right things. It seemed to be an easy job. I should have known better.”

This time it was Dean who snorted.

“Bullshit. You didn’t see the way those guys were trained, didn’t see the quality of their guns. Whoever that was that set us up, he knew damn well what he was doing and had enough resources to do it well.”

John sat down on the other bed, lacing his hands together.

“Did you learn something from your contact?” Asked Dean after a while, hating the silence between them.

John smiled bitterly.

“Well, you were right. It’s the pendant that forces Sam... the creature to be obedient towards the one that wears the other amulet. It’s a good news/bad news situation. Good news is that it’s frankly easy to break the spell. You only have to cut the chain with a blessed, silver knife. And we have many of those.” John said bitterly.

“So what’s the catch?”

The older Winchester looked at Dean.

“The bad news is that part of the pendant’s spell is to protect itself. Meaning that Sam will be forced to protect it, to kill anyone that would try to take it off him or off the other man. Any feelings or no, he will kill you if you try to take it away from him.”

Dean swallowed. That had so much potential for a total disaster.

“I have to try, Dad.” Dean said quietly. It was Sammy’s life they were talking about.

“I know.” John sighed. “I just... I don’t want to loose you too, Dean.’

The younger man swallowed through the constriction in his throat. Fuck, but he wasn’t used to his father talking to him about his feelings.

“Dad, don’t talk like that. You haven’t lost Sam. Not yet.”

John snorted.

“You read the journal. He hates me. Has for a long time now.”

Dean shook his head.

“Those things I read there... man, I’m still not really sure I believe it. I can’t comprehend how I didn’t notice it! But Dad, if he really hated you, why would he come with me to try and find you in the first place?”

John looked up at his son, a strange expression in his eyes, almost pity.

“Because it was you who asked, Dean. He couldn’t have left you alone like that.”

Dean tried to say something then just groaned. It just... it was so far beyond his ability to understand; it was another fucking dimension.

“No. He cares, Dad. He loves you, that is why he is so angry with you; he loves you, and that is the reason he forgave you.”

With those words Dean stood up, pulled his duffel of his bed and started throwing things in haphazardly.

“What are you doing?” 

Dean never looked up from his bag. He hated all that emotional stuff and talking about it was like pulling teeth. As far as he was concerned he was done with it for another 26 years at least.

“Packing. I’m booking another room.” He said matter of fact. “I’m going to have a guest.”

Not waiting for a response he left the room, slamming the door behind him with a satisfying thump.

He managed to keep his cool while he paid for another room and then unpacked the few things he had, setting different weapons in strategic places. After the room was set to his standards he sat down on the ratty bed and closed his eyes. The adrenaline, determination and sheer force of will left him then, leaving only memories of his brother’s body. He barely managed to roll out of bed and stumble into the bathroom before the enormity of what he had done hit him and he started retching, feeling like he would never stop.

Jesus Christ, he had sex with his baby brother.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

 

Three in the morning and sleep was still avoiding him.

Dean rarely had problems sleeping, his mind and body trained to fight understood the need for rest. It was usually so easy to shut down and fall into a dreamless sleep. But not lately.

Not since Sam was possessed.

Cursing, he rolled out of bed and stretched, trying to loosen the kinks in his back. He hated feeling this way, anxious, unsure and so damn helpless. He could stand almost anything. A beating, cutting, being burned or shot. But this... impotence, this inability to actually do anything to save his brother beside waiting was driving him fucking nuts.

After his little breakdown earlier, Dean was rather careful about the things he thought about. As long as he didn’t focus too much on what he had done and what he will be doing in some near future, everything was okay. He kept his cool.

And his dinner.

Bored, tired and filled with a kind of restless, humming energy he decided to take a shower. Nice, long hot one. Maybe it would put him to sleep? Because he so rarely had trouble sleeping, he didn’t really know what to do to relieve his sudden insomnia.

Stripping for the shower and watching the small, surprisingly tidy bathroom, Dean thought abut the way Sam had left him in that bar; the way his eyes had turned black and vacant for a moment. As if he wasn’t there. And, probably, he wasn’t. Whoever put so much effort and money to turn his Sammy into... whatever he was now, wouldn’t leave him alone. He would use his newly acquired weapon like any fighter would. Training with it, learning its strengths and weaknesses, checking just how much damage it could wreck.

It made him feel cold and sick, thinking that while he was tossing and turning trying desperately to sleep; Sam was out there killing some poor shmuck that had no idea what he was against. Dean didn’t expect to see his brother for some time.

Dean entered the shower and put his hands flat on the tiled wall, hanging his head low, letting the hot water sluice over his back and neck, as if washing away all his sins.

It felt like days, like a fucking eternity of just standing there and staring numbly at the water swirling down the drain between his feet. The mind numbing sight brought a kind of peace for him, freed him from thinking at least for a while, driving him into almost trance like state.

 

He was never quite sure just what it was that brought him out of it. Was it a sound? Or a smell? Probably neither. His whole life, he could always feel when his brother was near. It was almost like a sixth sense. But it was probably just his body's memory, awareness that was trained into them from all those years of hunting with their Dad.

His body tensed, but not in the way that indicated danger. It was only signalizing that there was somebody else close, somebody safe.

Dean snorted at that thought. Safe, yeah right. He thought about those guys gutted out in a matter of minutes after they tried to kill him, or the way he hung suspended from sheer fucking air with only his brother’s thought.

Safe, his ass.

Right now Sam could just as well gut him as fuck him.

Another part of him, though, kept insisting that if Sam was a danger to him, he wouldn’t be so careful with him. And Dean noticed it. He noticed how careful, how controlled Sam was with him. How he always kept his power and undeniable bloodlust in check when with him. And damn if it didn’t make Dean believe even harder, that he could, would, reach his brother. That under that whole power and aggression and blatant sexuality, there was still his Sammy. His baby brother.

He kept still, letting the water wash over him, his eyes glued to the floor as he heard the door to the bathroom creak open.

He knew those footsteps, knew the sound of those breaths.

He knew all things Sam, somewhere so deep, he would recognize him blind and deaf in a room full of people.

But it wasn’t his Sammy, it was the creature. With his eyes completely black and with terrifyingly beautiful, black lines on his face. He came in this form, because Dean told him that it would be all right. Strangely it was, because Dean hated the fact that hiding the black was causing his brother pain. Even if there was only a shadow of Sam left anymore.

He kept still through the rustle of clothes, the faint sounds of undressing. His breathing sped up, becoming harsher, more uneven as he felt the first tendrils of heat curling in his belly.

Shit, but that witch was powerful.

His cock was already half hard by the time he heard the other man pulling the shower curtain aside and step inside.

Dean couldn’t stop a small, shocked gasp and a shudder that wracked his body as he felt the taller, leaner and so much colder body press up against him, mold itself into his back. He couldn’t help the way his body twisted lightly, his legs spread that little bit to give Sam better access as he felt the long, strong arms encircle him. One hand press possessively at his chest, the other resting almost gently on his stomach. 

“Dean,” the word was breathed hot and heavy into his ear, sending another shudder down his back as Sam shifted and pressed his already erect dick into the small of his back.

He opened his eyes, a moan escaping him as his dick hardened to it’s full glory, pulsing lightly in anticipation and need. He never wanted, needed anybody as much as he did Sam right at this moment. 

His eyes still firmly fixed on the floor, he felt himself tense as what he was seeing finally registered in his brain.

The water swirling around his feet was pink with blood.

He knew, he could feel it in every cell of his body that it wasn’t Sam’s blood.

“Shhh...” he felt the lips so close to his ear, they brushed the ridge with a feather light touch. “Just let me take care of you.” It was Sam’s voice but not.

It was dark and heavy like molasses, thick and raspy and it did something to Dean, reduced him to a shivering, wanting desire.

He closed his eyes against the evidence of reality and let his brother turn him around with a gentle hand, yet strong enough to let him know who had the power here. Dean let himself be pulled even closer to that hard, taut body. Accepted the lips that pressed down on him. Hard and chafing, hot and passionate and he gave in. He gave into his body, into the desire curling low in his belly, into the familiar smell that filled his nose. Smoke, leather, blood but under it all simply Sam.

His flesh, his blood, his everything.

After a moment, maybe after an eternity he reached out with his hands, gripping his brothers shoulders to steady himself, as Sam pushed harder at him, making him loose his balance.

His hands slid over the slick, smooth skin onto the hard, beautifully developed chest. He heard a soft groan, almost felt it in his own mouth as Sam’s tongue kept tasting and searching his mouth. Seconds later, fingers of his right hand encountered a slight, too familiar irregularity in the otherwise smooth skin. 

Dean’s eyes snapped open. He pushed Sam away, breaking the kiss and stared at the pale chest and three, parallel, jagged wounds that were all too familiar to him.

Bullet wounds.

None of them seemed to penetrate the body, each one only grazed the flesh, breaking and burning the skin and muscle underneath. They weren’t very long, each maybe six inches at the most. They weren’t deep enough to cause serious problems either. He breathed out at that, relieved, because he knew what would happen if the wounds were fatal. The demon would keep Sam’s body alive, but the moment they exorcised it, Sam would die. 

The wounds bled lightly, the water flowing over them turned light pink in color. Sam didn’t seem to mind them at all, but Dean couldn’t stand the sight of them.

“You need to take care of it.” He said hoarsely, still very aware of his hard cock bobbing between his thighs. “they could get affected.” 

His brother was still, the black eyes liquid and flat, revealing no emotions and the black lines made his face look even paler in the ugly, artificial lightning in the bathroom. 

“Come on.” He tried to pull Sam from the shower, but his brother stayed still not fighting Dean but also not complying. 

“Sam, this water is crap for open wounds. You need to get them dressed up properly.” Dean sighed, anxious to protect at least his brothers body. To make sure Sam could come back to them.

“There’s no need.” Sam finally said, reaching one of those freakishly long arms to curl around Dean’s neck and pull him forward until his face was just inches from the wounds.

“Lick it.” The command was soft, almost dream like but the hand curled around his head, the other resting almost gently on Dean’s hip made it clear that it was not a question.

The older Winchester realized, that in that seedy bar, on that green pool table, Sam asked for permission that Dean gave. There was no going back now, no changing his mind.

Dean shuddered, but it wasn’t revulsion. It was the onslaught of memories. He remembered, when Sam was still very little and almost innocent, how Dean used to kiss all the scrapes and cuts better, determined to be a mother, father and brother in one. Trying to give Sam a family he so desperately craved even back then. Possessed or not, it was still his brother’s body and he knew its smell, knew how the skin tasted... it was nothing new. So, he leaned down the final inches towards Sam’s pectoral and brushed his lips against the ragged edges of the first wound. Softly. Rumbling something deep in his throat because he remembered that Sammy used to giggle and relax at the low thrum Dean learned to do very early. Maybe it was the vibration, or something else, but it worked on Sammy like a charm. Dean hoped it still did.

He flicked his tongue over the wound, strangely willing to taste his brother again. It was so long since they were this close, he needed to do it. After a moment he realized the texture under his tongue had changed and he opened his eyes. He couldn’t help the gasp he made at the sight that greeted him.

The wounds were healing.

Just inches from his eyes, the skin and muscles knitted together, mended leaving only thin, pink lines that faded in a matter of seconds also, leaving nothing behind. Not even a scar.

Dean looked up, cursing the black eyes again. He couldn’t read Sam’s face with them; something so small, but it changed Sam’s expressions completely. Dean never realized just how much Sam conveyed with only his eyes. Still, Dean searched for any sign of emotion on the long, strangely pale face. Sam’s longish hair, now wet, seemed almost black, clinging to his head, dripping fat drops of water on his long nose.

He reached up, like always, cursing his brother’s height. It was just so unfair… He touched the sharp line of Sam’s cheekbone, letting his fingertips skim over the black line cutting through his cheek somehow surprised at the fact that it didn’t feel any different. Just smooth, wet, slightly cool skin.

The black eyes, so alien without the whites, shifted towards his face.

“What do you want?” 

Not only Sam’s eyes were different. His voice had also changed. It was deep, dark and thick like molasses. It enveloped Dean in sensation, in scorching warmth that zigged through his nerves, pooling deep, deep down in his belly, making his cock heavy and hard.

“I want my brother back.” He was honest, because what he said didn’t really matter. Right now, the only thing that had any weight was what Sam wanted.

“I’m not your brother. Not any more.” It was said slowly, almost gently. As if he didn’t want to hurt Dean, if only with words.

Dean laid his hand over the long neck that just begged to be kissed and bitten until red, raised marks adored every inch of the smooth skin.

“Then why do you behave like him?” 

Under the anger, the darkness, the sheer fucking power, there was still Sam. His little brother.

Not waiting for a response, Dean pulled the taller man closer into a kiss, not willing to listen to him any longer, nor look at his face. Something inside him shuddered in delight at the fact that Sam complied. Without hesitation, without resistance. It was a rush to keep this kind of power in his hands.

The kiss was slow and almost gentle, Sam letting him control it. Slowly exploring Sam’s mouth, enjoying the taste and wetness of his mouth, nibbling carefully with his teeth at the lower lip, Dean slid his finger carefully to the nape of Sam’s neck and let his fingers catch against the silver chain there.

The reaction was immediate. With a low growl, Sam pushed him back so violently, Dean slammed into the cold, tiled wall with an ‘omph’. 

“Don’t,” the word was quiet but the meaning unmistakable. The bared teeth and sudden tension in the lean body spoke clearly to Dean. If he tried that stunt again then he would get seriously hurt. Dean didn’t answer verbally, trying to convey his apologies with his body. He knew, that if he spoke, Sam would hear the lie there.

This time it was Sam that moved. Quickly crossing the distance between them, one hand slapping onto the tile inches from Dean’s ear, the other closing over his bicep, keeping him in place as Sam leaned down. Trapping him between the smooth, tall body and cold wall, making Dean feel uncomfortably small with his brother towering over him so much.

Sam slammed their mouths together, hard and fast, teeth nipping, biting, dragging over the sensitive tissues, splitting lips, making Dean taste his own blood. His little brother kissed with his whole body, pressing his hips into Dean’s stomach dragging his hard cock over the muscles there, making Dean shudder in anticipation and arousal. It was the first time he got to actually feel his brother’s erection without the layers of clothes. 

It seemed that Sam had exhausted his limit of patience. His movements became stronger, faster, his kiss almost vicious as his free hand pressed against Dean’s chest. Fingernails scraped four stinging lines straight to his right nipple, making Dean hiss and arch.

Not one to be left behind, Dean scratched at Sam’s back hard, his nails almost breaking the skin, enjoying the way muscles fluttered under the wet, slick skin. His brother made a low growling sound, broke the kiss then slid his wet, slightly cool lips over Dean’s jaw, the teeth scraping and then his lips closed over the straining tendon on Dean’s neck.

The older Winchester cursed as Sam bit him again, no doubt leaving a mark, and his wet hand closed over his straining dick. He threw his head back so forcefully it thumped, hitting the tile. He could come just from having his neck mauled and Sam stroking his erection just right, with enough force and with the right twist at the end, he was seeing the stars.

Whatever he expected, it wasn’t Sam suddenly falling to his knees in front of Dean. The water, cooler now, kept beating the steady thrum on their bodies and Sam tilted his head back, his eyes black, the thick lines still marring his face and looked at Dean. Those eyes weren’t flat anymore. They were burning, holding something, some fierce emotion behind the darkness and it took Dean’s breath away.

He watched, mesmerized into stillness as Sam, still gripping his member in one hand, opened his swollen and slightly puffy, from their earlier kisses, lips and slowly, ever so slowly, slid the hard member into his mouth, until the head was inside. The wetness, the heat, it was a thousand times better than being jerked of, and he barely resisted the urge to thrust. 

His eyes still locked on Dean’s, Sam slowly slid all the way down, until the head hit the back of his throat and he swallowed taking it even deeper.

Jesus fucking Christ, Dean scrunched his eyes tightly closed, his hands going to the wet tresses of the kneeling man and gripping tightly, desperately needing something to ground him, to stay off the impending release. Sam swallowed again and Dean almost sobbed, feeling his throat muscles working around him. He wanted it to last longer, if just for a little bit. He was all for hard and fast, but this was fucking ridiculous. He felt like a teenager again, ready to shoot at a moments notice. And Oh My God, where did Sam learn to do things like that?

Panting hard and fast, he tried to control his body, tried to keep himself from coming as Sam started a hard, unrelenting bobbing rhythm, his tongue doing unbelievable things to his cock and Dean was just seconds from coming. Suddenly, his eyes snapped open as Sam pushed two wet fingers between his ass cheeks and into his hole. No warning, no preparation and it burned like hell, hurt even. Dean could feel his erection softening a bit with the shock and unexpectedness of Sam’s action. He wanted to say something, protest but before he had the chance to say a word, Sam found his prostate and rubbed.

Hard.

Dean actually screamed as he came, his balls drawing so close his body they felt like they tried to crawl right in. His dick jumped and pulsed, sending ropes of come into his brother’s mouth and Jesus Christ, he swallowed. The sensation of Sam’s throat working around his already softening, almost too sensitive cock was as much painful as pleasurable, drawing the orgasm out until Dean felt like he would just slide down the wall, his legs like wet noodles.

He hissed as Sam removed the fingers from his ass, not used to penetration and nearly whimpered as his little brother pulled his mouth away from his cock, giving the head a final, gentle lick as a farewell.

Not entirely in control of all his faculties, Dean watched lazily as Sam turned the water off and then pulled him out of the shower to stand in the middle of the tiny bathroom. There was something very comforting in watching Sam do those simple things, it made him forget even if for a moment that it was not his little brother. Not really.

Relaxed after his orgasm, he stood docile as Sam took one of the big towels and slowly dried him off. In careful, sensual movements he ran the towel over Dean’s head gathering the excess of water from the short hair. He dried his brother’s neck, letting his hands linger over the already raising bite marks there. Sam slid the towel over Dean’s chest, pressing the rough cloth stronger to the reddened nipples, making Dean hiss and rock back lightly.

With a tiny smile on his lips, Sam trailed the towel lower, over the hard belly and then circled the still too sensitive member with his toweled hand and stroked a few times, watching Dean intently.

The older Winchester had to bit his lip and reach a hand to the sink, gripping it tightly, steadying himself. It hurt, Sam’s hand on his recently spent cock. But it also felt fucking good. Dean always liked his kinks and rough sex was one of them. He learned long ago, that a little pain could sharpen the pleasure, make it that much sweeter.

Just before the pain became too much, Sam stopped moving lower. Kneeling to run the towel over Dean’s, now slightly shaky, legs.

The older Winchester was all too aware of the fact that Sam was still aroused, still hard. He had no doubts he was going to get fucked tonight. Literally.

“Turn around,” Sam requested in that low, rich voice that send shivers down his spine making his cock twitch but there was no way he could get hard this soon.

Without a word he turned, letting out an almost purr as he felt those strong, big hands with such elegant fingers caress his back, kneading lightly.

Sam spent so much time on Dean, that when he finally let the damp towel fall to the floor and pressed himself to Dean’s back, he was barely damp.

Feeling lazy and still strangely aroused, Dean pressed back, stretching his neck in a clear invitation. He reached over his shoulder to grab Sam by the back of his neck, still secretly thrilled that Sam allowed him, and pulled him into a kiss. Slow and lazy, he licked Sam’s lips before trying to push past them into the soft wetness behind. 

The taller man plastered himself against Dean, pressing his heavy and hot erection into the small of his back, moving his hips in gentle, almost lazy thrusts, letting Dean control the kiss for now. 

Dean gasped and broke the kiss when he felt Sam’s long fingered hand sliding between his ass cheeks and two fingers rubbing none too gently over his anus, already slightly sensitive from the rough fingering he received earlier.

“How far will you go?” Asked Sam, his voice still low and rich, like molasses, sliding over Dean’s nerve endings like liquid fire.

Dean looked up, into the cheap mirror above the sink that he was still gripping tightly with his left hand. Sam’s face was pale, paler than usual in the artificial light. Or maybe it was those black lines that changed his face so much. His eyes were no longer flat. They glittered with something hot and heavy, something dangerous and fierce directed only on Dean.

His hair was at that fuzzy, half dry half wet stage, falling over his face and into his eyes, but it did nothing to mask the blackness of his eyes. Dean was sure, he hated them with passion. It was the only thing that reminded him that it wasn’t his brother.

He locked his eyes with the black ones in the mirror, staring in them unflinchingly, sure in what he was doing.

“How far do you want to?”

Sam closed his eyes for a moment and pressed his nose into Dean’s already almost dry hair, inhaling deeply, his fingers still rubbing circles over Dean’s entrance, his other hand sneaking around the older Winchester in a hard, possessive hug.

“I want to see you, taste you, hear you, bury myself so deep inside you, you’ll never want anyone else,” Sam whispered darkly, his black eyes fierce as he looked into the mirror and bit Dean’s neck again, just under the ear, making sure to leave another mark.


	7. Chapter 7

Dean shuddered at the words, his cock half twitching between his legs. It almost hurt, his body trying to get it up so soon after his orgasm, but hell, if there was one kink that was guaranteed to get him off in minutes, it was dirty talk.

Sam moved away then. He was completely unselfconscious in his nudity. That long, perfectly muscled body moved like water, quiet and sure as he left the bathroom, hips swaying gently as he walked.

Dean couldn’t stop his eyes from following that smooth, pale back. That inviting groove of backbone, down into the shallow dimple just above Sam’s ass, where small, taut ass cheeks started. Sam was all long lines and hand angles.

When dressed in his oversized hoodies, people tended to think him skinny. But naked, all the powerful muscle showed with mouth watering clarity.

Not really capable of doing anything else, Dean followed Sam into the room; it only had one bed. His brother was sitting on it, all casual intensity, darkness and hard planes of flesh.  
He sat high, up on the headboard. One leg bent with an elbow resting on it, the other leg lay flush on the bed. His head was tilted back, resting against the wall, eyes half closed. 

Watching. 

Waiting. 

Sam’s free hand was in his lap, those long, talented fingers circleing loosely around the perfectly hard cock. His dick was long, elegant almost, much paler than Dean’s own. It looked slimmer too. It had something very appealing about the way it curved slightly upwards, the head a darker shade.

Dean licked his lips. If he didn’t think about Sam as his little brother, this body, this form would be extremely appealing to him. It was the curse, he reminded himself, that made him feel this attraction, made him so goddamned lust crazy. 

Sam was watching him and Dean felt another shiver run down his body. There was a thrill in being watched, for him, attraction that that made his dick that little bit harder, his balls tighter.

Slowly, letting his trademark, cocky grin tug at his lips, Dean crawled onto the foot of the bed. On hands and knees, he crawled over Sam’s legs. He stopped over the bony knee and bent down to bite down at the softer flesh above, relishing the intake of breath from above. He crawled his way, kissing and nipping in random places, up to Sam’s face. Kissing him. Slow, wet and dirty. The saliva dripped down his chin and Sam’s hands became more insistent with every passing second. Dean was already impressed with the level of his brother’s control. He wouldn’t be able to deny himself for so long.

“I will fuck you.” Sam rasped, carefully pronouncing each word, so close to his face, Dean could feel his breath. Hot and heavy on his lips. It was a statement of fact. Not a question. “I’m going to split you wide open, press my cock into you and fuck you so deep, you’ll feel me for a week.” Sam murmured, his hand sliding over Dean’s body. “I’ll make you come so many times you’ll beg me to stop. I’ll make you come so hard it’ll be more pain than pleasure.” Sam promised him darkly. “I’ll fuck you again and again, and again...” His fingers found Dean’s cleft and slid there. One slender digit finding the sensitive hole and slipping inside making Dean groan. “...and again, until that tight hole of yours is loose, open and sloppy, until my come will run down your thighs, wet and sticky. I’ll fuck you until this... “He pumped his finger in and out without any lubrication, making it burn “...is red and swollen. I’ll fuck you until there’s nothing left in you but me.”

Dean shuddered, torn between pleasure and pain, arousal and fear. His cock was almost completely hard again and he could barely think with all those pictures Sam kept painting in his head.

“Would you like that Dean?” Sam asked, pulling his hand away and reaching to Dean’s nipples, pinching them sharply, making the older Winchester hiss. “Would you like me to hurt you? Just a little bit?”

In that moment Dean gave up trying to keep any semblance of control, which his brother was determined to break anyway.

“Yes.” He admitted brokenly. 

Sam smiled. A tiny, almost gentle smile on his alien face.

“Lay down on your stomach.” He ordered and Dean complied, sitting himself carefully face down an the bed.

“Spread your legs.” Sam whispered hotly, “I want to see how much you want this.”

Dean had to burrow his face in the cool pillow, feeling how hot his skin was. God, it was making him hot. His need, his desire clouded his mind. He did as he was ordered without once thinking just how submissive he acted. He shifted his hips, trying to keep his erection from being uncomfortably squashed. He felt exposed, vulnerable like this. Naked, legs spread, with Sam staring at him like a starving man at a three course meal. 

It took his brother forever to finally touch him, barely a brush of hand over his arms. Sam shifted, kneeling between Dean’s legs, bending forward almost covering his older brother’s body.

“You are so beautiful.” Sam whispered, licking over the rim of Dean’s ear. "I love your body.” Sam pressed the palms of his hands to Deans shoulders and dragged them slowly down. Over the wide expanse of his perfect muscle, golden brown skin, to the hard, round ass. All the while talking, whispering low and dirty in Dean’s ear.

“So strong, so perfect.” He let his fingernails scrap at the soft skin. “So hard. And mine. Completely mine.” 

When Sam’s fingers reached Dean’s cleft, the older man tensed and moved, reaching under the pillow. He pulled out something. Then threw the items over his shoulder.

“Use these.”

Sam’s chuckle above him was positively wicked.

“Always prepared, huh?” 

“Boy Scouts have nothing on me.” Dean quipped, but it fell flat, sounded strained with the husky, shaky quality of his voice.

He could hear the cap of the bottle of lube being opened, could feel Sam shifting behind him. He wasn’t scared. Just a little... nervous. After all he had never been fucked before and now he was going to do it with his possessed little brother. Nothing to be afraid of.

He never trusted anyone enough to allow it, he doubt he ever would. It required the level of trust he simply never put in people. He only ever trusted his Dad and Sammy. So it kind of made sense that it was Sam to fuck him for the first time. Dean was never even curious about it, and now he lay here, legs spread, waiting for his brother to put his cock into his ass. Maybe it was the curse, and maybe he just didn’t know himself as well as he thought.

A quiet ‘plop’ beside his head caught his attention and he looked there, only to see an unopened condom.

“Sam...” He started unsure.

He might not have been bottoming before, but he had sex with men. So he did know something about it. No matter the lubrication, latex was always much smoother than skin. Using a condom, besides protection, reduced friction.

“No. No barriers between us. I want you to feel me.” Sam whispered darkly. His fingers, slick this time, found it’s way to Dean’s cleft again. “Besides, you want it to hurt a bit, don’t you?”

Dean scrunched his eyes closed, oh God, yes. He wanted it. Wanted it so bad he was a breath away from begging.

Sam pressed his finger inside, sliding deep on the first try. No hesitation, no time for Dean to adjust. There wasn’t much stretching, just a few quick thrusts and he pulled the finger out, only to return seconds later with a companion. 

Dean groaned at the light burn, the lube helping but not eliminating the friction. He fisted his hands in the pillow and held on, sensing that things were going to be rough, just like he liked.

Two fingers were a stretch, but not really painful nor uncomfortable. Just alien. 

This time Sam wasn’t taking time to stroke his prostate like in the shower, not giving Dean any kind of distraction that would take his mind away from the long digits in his ass. When he pulled out, Dean knew what would happen next. It still didn’t prepare him for the burn and stretch, the sheer pressure as Sam pushed three fingers inside. He couldn’t stop the half choked whimper that tore out of his throat. His hands tensed on the cheap cotton of the pillowcase, knuckles whitening.

Just a few thrusts, barely enough to lube him up, not really stretching him either, certainly not enough to prepare him for the upcoming invasion.

When Sam pulled his fingers out, Dean tried his best to control his breathing. His ass pulsed, both in anticipation and fear, the ghost memory of fingers inside him, made him clench.

“Now.” Whispered Sam and shifted again, one hand resting above Dean’s head, bracing his weight, the other out of view.

At first Dean only felt a light touch of something blunt and hot at his anus, not pressing, just resting there. Wet and hard, making him shudder in want, frying his nerves with anticipation. But nothing happened. Sam seemed content to just rest there, his cockhead barely touching Dean’s ass, nothing else of his body touching his brother.

“Please.” Dean finally whispered, not able to stand it any longer. 

Without a word, Sam moved. Thrust in one, gut twisting, slow move that breached the still tight ring of muscle and stretched him. The entry was slow, almost dizzyingly painful and Dean lost complete control over the sound leaving his throat. Low, plaintative whimpers and almost broken sobs as Sam pushed, relentlessly, deeper and deeper inside. Pushed his insides away, rearranged him.

“Oh God...” Dean scratched at the thin pillowcase, barely aware of the sound of the thin cotton tearing. He arched his neck back, his eyes scrunched tight. 

God it hurt, but underneath it all was the incredible feeling of penetration, of being filled, stretched, possessed in a way he didn’t know before, a way he didn’t think was possible. Muscles in his legs and arms trembled, his ass hurt and sweat started dripping down his back.

It seemed like forever, the way Sam pressed his cock in, slowly, ruthlessly, until Dean felt Sam’s pubic hair pressed to his ass cheeks. And oh God, Sam was all the way inside, his cock, heavy and hot, resting inside him.

Dean was breathing so hard, he was almost hyperventilating, and even Sam was panting above him, the sound like a physical caress. The only point of connection between them was the hot spear of Sam’s dick. Nothing else. It made Dean ultra aware of the length, the girt of flesh inside him. The pain receded. Due to him relaxing or the lack of movement, Dean didn’t know. Nor did he care at the moment. At first the stillness was a blessing, giving him time to adjust, to comprehend what he was feeling but after a while it became a torture. The need to move, to do something, anything to relieve the pressure he felt gathering in his balls became almost painful.

Sam still didn’t more.

Desperate for any kind of relief, Dean moved under him, pressing his hips into the sheets seeking any kind of friction. The move made him clench around the rod inside him and he moaned, surprised at the intensity and clarity of sensations. It was almost too much, his mind barely able to process the overwhelming feelings.

Sam’s other hand clenched on his hip, hard and painful, digging his blunt fingernails into the delicate skin there.

“No. You will do only what I tell you, only when I tell you.” 

Sam shifted again, resting more of his weight on Dean, laying on him, pressing him into the bed, his cock shifting a little bit deeper inside and Dean almost sobbed. 

“Please...” He begged hoarsely.

“Please what?” Asked Sam, his lips so close to Dean’s ear he could feel the moist air he exhaled. “Tell me Dean. What do you want?”

His cock was full and aching, smearing precome on the sheet below him, and Dean felt like he was going to burst. It was too much and not enough at once.

“I want... I need to come.” He finally panted, the stillness driving him crazy.

“Fine,” there was a dark promise in Sam’s voice.

He moved, back into kneeling position, this time both hands clenched tightly on Dean’s hips. As he moved backwards, he used his grip to pull Dean with him, forcing them to stay connected, never pulling his cock out of his brother.

The sensation was a wicked, overwhelming one and Dean had trouble coordinating his limbs. When they stilled again, Sam was sitting on his heels, and Dean was sitting in his lap, knees spread wide on both sides of Sam’s thighs, ass stretched so widely over the hard length inside him.

“Jesus Christ.” Dean panted as the shift in their positions changed the angle of penetration, and Sam was now pressing directly into his prostate, sending white hot shocks of pleasure throughout his body.

Dean’s arms flied, trying to find something, anything to hold onto, to ground him. His hands finally closed over Sam’s, still holding his hips in an unyielding grip.

“Sam.” He whispered brokenly, trying to move but too overwhelmed to do anything at all.

“Don’t move.” His brother’s voice was breathless too, now.

“Sam!” he whined, the pressure in him too much to bear.

“Touch yourself, but don’t move your hips. I want to watch you, feel you jerk off, while I’m inside you. I want to see you come.”

Dean hung his head, eyes closed tightly as he reached for his dick, closed his fist around the painfully straining organ.

He stared moving his fist fast, tight, wanting only to come. Already so close to the edge.

“Slow.” Ordered Sam, biting his shoulder lightly and sneaking one hand to splay it, big and warm, over Dean’s tight stomach. “Do it slow.” He whispered hotly, his voice lower than ever before.

Dean made a painful, sobbing sound even as he obeyed, his hand slowing. He fisted himself slowly, his hand moving over the head with a little twist, and then back to the very end.

He was so close to coming, that every touch was like torture. Too much and not enough at the same time.

“Is it good Dean?” Sam whispered straight into his ear, the hand over his stomach pressing down, making Dean feel the cock seated inside him in a thousand different ways . “Do you like it? Having my cock so deep inside you?”

“Christ!” Dean felt his heart try to hammer it’s way out of his chest. His dick was so sensitive it hurt and his balls were already drawing up towards his body. But the friction was not enough to get him off. The things Sam said, the dark breathy voice took Dean all that closer to the edge.

“Yesss.” He hissed, his hand closing stronger over his cock. He couldn’t stand it any longer.

“Then show me, come for me. Show me how good it is.” Sam urged him.

With a hoarse scream Dean arched, throwing his head back so that it was resting on Sam’s shoulder. His neck was stretched to the point of pain, his hand flew over his cock in desperate need and finally, finally it happened. His body, became almost rigid, his ass clenched so hard over the intruder inside him that Sam hissed, and long strands of come shot out his cock bringing release. Spasm after spasm, pleasure so great it was almost painful, Dean was coming so hard his world started graying out on the edges.

But even before he finished coming, Sam moved. It seemed all his previous control was shattered now. With rough, urging hands he pushed Dean on his hands and knees. Then he started fucking him with all he had. His hips sent a punishing, hard pace that slammed his cock deep and hard into his brother.

Dean was still twitchy, sensitive from his orgasm. It hurt, Sam slamming into him so hard, but God, it hurt so good. He felt like he hadn’t stopped coming at all. 

His body still spasmed and clenched, his softening cock sending waves after waves of painful pleasure to his brain, and Sam kept stroking that special place in him with every thrust in. Dean wasn’t even aware he was screaming, cursing with every strong thrust. Wasn’t aware of his white knuckled grip on the cheap sheets, trying to stay connected. He was only aware of the friction, of pleasure and pain ripping his mind apart, of Sam’s cock inside him, the head stretching him so far, so good.

With a sound like a growl, Sam came, his hands leaving bruises on Dean’s hips. His scalding hot come covering Dean’s insides, his body rigid and tense as he reached the long denied release.

Unable to hold himself up any longer, Dean collapsed in a sweaty, heaviy heap on the bed with Sam following him down, blanketing his body with his own, longer and cooler one. 

They lay like that for a while, bodies entwined, still connected. Finally Sam moved, shifted, pulling his now soft cock out and Dean hissed at the sensation, but was too lazy, too sated to do anything more than lay there sweaty and sleepy.

Sam pushed him until Dean rolled to his side, and then Sam laid down behind him, close, letting one of his hand to stroke his brother’s flank from shoulder to knee in slow, gentle movements, very at odds with the controlling freak he was just moments before.

With an odd sense of déja vu, Dean felt Sam press his lips to his neck and mouth something, too quiet for him to hear. It took him a moment to discern the word.

‘Mine’

He snorted lightly, fighting his heavy lids and the urge to just fall asleep.

“Possessive much, little brother?” He asked, surprised by the hoarseness of his voice.

His only response was a none too gentle bite to his neck. Another one. He figured he had at least a dozen of them already. Yeah, possessive bastard. But it didn’t feel bad. Dean figured that with Dad that seemed to be able to leave him at a moments notice and the memory of Sam leaving for Stanford, Cassie throwing him out after promising so much, he had some serious abandonment issues. S, being wanted so much, needed so badly, gave him a kind of warm feeling somewhere deep inside, where he wouldn’t admit to it.

The silence was broken only by the occasional car driving by outside, the room dark and warm and Dean felt himself slip into sleep. His body and mind exhausted.

When he was at that stage, half way between sleep and wakefulness, he felt Sam move away from him. He wondered if Sam was going to leave now. Probably yes, but after this, Dean was sure he would come back.

That was why he was so surprised when he felt Sam roll him onto his back, nudging him until he spread his legs. His eyes snapped open as he felt Sam settling himself between them and then move till he was laying over Dean, his head level with Dean’s chest.

He looked into the black eyes, but once again they betrayed nothing. Just pure, deep darkness. Terrifying in it’s darkness, beautiful in it’s intensity.

“I’m not finished.” Sam said slowly, his words almost a threat.

His brother then lowered his head and licked his nipple. Once, twice and then bit it sharply before easing the sting with gentle sucking. Dean’s body felt both relaxed and so incredibly sensitive right now. Those wet, slick touches and bites were almost too much, almost painful. Dean exhaled loudly, his whole body tensing. There were still, although it was completely insane, tiny tremors of arousal cruising his body, making his skin extra sensitive. Like after a mild sunburn, when you weren’t sure if it was really pain or not.

Dean entwined one of his hands in Sam’s shaggy hair and pulled his head up, still not really sure what to do, not really distinguishing pain from pleasure any more. 

“Sam... I can’t anymore. Okay?” 

The black lines on his cheeks seemed even more stark now, his large, bottomless eyes stared at Dean for a longest moment, unblinking, before Sam answered, “You can. You will. Because I haven’t done all those things I promised you I would do.” 

Dean’s breath hitched. There was no hesitation in Sam, no asking for permission. Just a statement of fact.

A sudden ‘clank’ in the room drew his attention from his brother and he looked over, to the floor where his jeans lay. His hand slipped from Sam’s hair as he watched, a little bit scared, a little bit aroused, as his leather belt wormed it’s way out of the loops, by itself. He knew that it was Sam manipulating it with his powers, and the ease, the effortlessness of it all hit him full force when Sam returned to licking and biting all around his chest. The belt floated towards the bed and stopped just inches from them, floating two feet over the floor. 

It was so surreal, it took Dean a moment to notice that Sam now had both his wrists in his hands. His eyes snapped towards Sam, but the black eyes didn’t betray a thing.

“Don’t worry Dean. You’ll like it.”

Using his considerable strength, he pushed Dean’s hands over his head, pressing them flat into the pillow. The belt flapped through the air and with a sift hissing sound wrapped itself around Dean’s forearms tightly. One end twisted around the iron in the headboard. 

He was helpless, at Sam’s mercy and it sent a sliver of arousal down his spine. There was no way he could get hard again. No fucking way.

He watched his brother lower his hand again to his chest, sucking and nipping at his over sensitive flesh and thought that maybe that was the deal. Maybe Sam wanted him like this, helpless, unable to even get hard when he fucked him again. Wanted Dean to feel every single thing, without distractions.

He shuddered when Sam laved at his navel and then slid quickly to his cock. It hurt, but was also pleasant when Sam took the spent organ into his mouth and sucked very, very gently. To his amazement Dean felt something he has never felt. He was getting into it, arousal pooling low in his belly while his cock stayed limp and spent. Not even a twitch in it. Sam seemed intent on doing this again, and quite seriously he couldn’t really blame him for it. After all, Sam did most of the work and came only once. And he was four years younger than Dean.

Dean’s eyes snapped open when he felt fingers touching his hole. It was pulsing, hurting a bit and shit, but even the slightest touch hurt. But it also sent pleasant shivers up his spine at the memory of how a cock in there felt.

He pulled at his bonds, hearing the leather creak in protest, as Sam pushed two fingers inside. The burn made him choke back a whimper. Sam wasn’t thrusting this time, his fingers went straight for Dean’s prostate and pressed.

This time Dean shouted, his back arching off the bed and hand pulling at the belt until it bit hard into his skin. And that addition, small pain tilted the scale somehow. Suddenly his heart sped up, his mouth became dry and he shifted his legs, gathering Sam between his thighs.

“Yes,” he whispered hoarsely. “Do it now.”

Sam stopped his gentle nursing on his cock and moved up the bed, his hands sliding over the trembling thighs until he could pull them up so that Dean closed his legs over Sam’s waist. 

Without a word this time, Sam positioned his already hard cock and pressed into the small, swollen ring of muscle. Dean was so full of lube and come, his passage relaxed and open from the work out it got before, that Sam slid right it, to the hilt in one effortless move. 

Dean screamed, it hurt. Hurt so damn much. But he was no longer capable of discerning pain from pleasure. So, he screamed hoarsely again and flexed his legs, pulling Sam in even deeper, almost passing out at the feeling of the hard cock inside him brushing over his prostate. 

Sam leaned down, resting his weight on his hands, braced on both sides of his brother's head and moved. He thrust in and out slowly, letting his dick slide almost all the way out until only the flared head stayed inside, stretching the abused muscle ruthlessly, before sliding slowly in. He did it again and again, until Dean felt wetness falling from the corners of his eyes. he never felt this way, this disconnected from reality, so earthy, so mortal; in his body wracked with desires, his mind was no longer capable of comprehending. He felt tension and pressure like he was close to coming but his dick was still soft, laying on his stomach, forgotten. 

“Look at me,” Sam forced out, between clenched teeth and Dean complied, opening his eyes.

It was hard, focusing his eyes, when his brain was being turned into mush from all the sensations. The friction and pressure, the want, need, desire and fucking heat that was almost killing Dean.

Sam was above him, muscles in his arms bunched, flexing with every slow, deep thrust. His skin was flushed, slick with sweat. As he looked into his brothers face he saw the alien black eyes staring at him with such heat he felt his breath catch, the black lines were even starker now. Droplets of sweat were scattered over his face, rolling down from his forehead onto his nose, stopping at the sharp point of Sam’s nose, before falling down. Straight on Dean’s lips.

He licked the salty droplet, unable to resist tasting his brother. They were both panting, bodies straining and in that moment Dean knew, was absolutely sure, that his brother was still alive, still there, still strong. Because somewhere behind that darkness, that bottomless blackness, Dean saw love. 

Suddenly Sam changed the pace, his thrusts becoming erratic and hard, eliciting another scream out of Dean. The older Winchester was so close, he just needed… something, to push him over the edge. But his cock was still only partially hard with no hope for more. His hands, tied so securely above his head were making him feel helpless and vulnerable, the belt cutting into his skin, leaving angry marks that would be bruised by tomorrow, but he didn’t care. He just needed to come, needed to release the tension in his body or he felt like he would die. Suddenly Sam wrenched one hand free, using only one hand to brace himself and reached between their bodies. He cupped Dean’s whole cock and balls in his large hand, closing his fingers over the genitals and massaged firmly, pressing and releasing in a rhythm matching his thrusts.

It was enough. Dean arched his back so hard he felt something pop and opened his mouth to scream but Sam lunged down and closed his mouth over Dean’s, muffling the agonized scream of release. His cock pulsed but produced no come, still soft. Dean experienced the most amazing, unbelievable sensation of coming with his whole body not only his member. It seemed that every pore, every cell of his body pulsed, releasing the tension, swamping his brain with pleasure he couldn’t comprehend nor process. He felt Sam slamming one last time inside him and then scalding heat covering his insides as his eyes rolled back in his head. Neither his mind, nor body were capable of enduring this kind of input and they simply shut down, sending him falling into soft, safe darkness.

tbc


	8. Chapter 8

Dean knew he was dreaming.

Which was strange for him, because he almost never dreams. But the liquid, shifty quality of sensations he was experiencing gave him the kind of certainty one could have only in dreams.

He was having sex. Which was very good, all thing considered. Let it not be said that Dean Winchester shied away from sex. Ever.

With a woman. 

Another bonus.

He knew he was inside her, could feel the tight, wet heat of her around his cock, could feel her legs closing over his hips, but the sensation was muted.

There was this nagging feeling, need, to know just who she was.

Her skin was pale, milky white and flushed. Her flat belly was just soft enough for him to want to bite it gently. Her hair was long, falling in a golden wave on the sheets. He touched the soft tresses.

“Dean.” It was barely a whisper, but he knew this voice. He heard it at leas once before. He was sure of it. 

Finally, Dean looked up into the face of his dream lover. The moment he saw her face, he jerked back so hard he woke up with his lungs burning with the need to scream. Panting. Scared. Sitting alone in his motel bed.

“Jesus Christ,” He muttered into his hands. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

He just dreamed about having sex with Jessica. His brother’s dead girlfriend. How fucked up was this? He didn’t even know her. He saw her once, for God’s sake!

Besides, she was Sam’s girl. And she was dead. 

Shaking his head, hard, Dean decided it was time to get up anyway. The moment he moved, though, various tingles and aches in his body called attention to themselves. Slowly, Dean took stock in his condition.

His wrists were scraped and bruised from tugging at the belt, which was still tied to the headboard. He was sore all over, his body not really used to such intensity. Even his cock was sore, slightly achy from the over stimulation the night before. And of course his ass. Dean decided he was not going to think about his ass. No sir.

He was frankly surprised at the way he was feeling. All the physical signs aside, he felt remarkably well. His plan worked, Sam came to him. He didn’t let him touch the chain the night before, but Dean was sure that it would be different the next time he saw his brother. Because no matter how twisted and dark the feeling, Sam seemed to trust him even in this state.

He flashed to the way those black, scary eyes softened and burned at him in the last moments of his consciousness. He saw his brother then. His Sammy. Saw everything that Sam was in those black, alien eyes. Sure, he was sharper, raw and fucking dangerous. But he was alive. And it was everything Dean needed to know.

Still a bit rattled about the dream he had, Dean got up from the bed not bothering to hide the wince. Yeah, his little bro gave him quite a workout. 

He was still exhausted, his limbs felt heavy and eyes gritty and dry. All he wanted to do now was to go back to sleep. But he couldn’t.

Dean opened the bathroom door and stared at the small, clean room. No signs of Sam ever being here. But he could still remember the coppery smell of blood on Sam. His brother killed somebody that night. And Dean needed to know who because he was partially to blame for it. Because his father and him are so reluctant to kill Sam and whatever is possessing him, more people will die. Sam doesn’t have a choice here. He is bound by a spell and by that thing that possesses him. Dean? He doesn’t have an excuse like that. 

He stepped into the shower, relishing the warm water beating on his sore muscles, making some of the aches to go away. He washed quickly, disturbed by the arousal he felt when he remembered just what he and Sam did in this shower just a few hours ago.

He washed quickly and left the shower, twisting a towel around his hips and starting to brush his teeth. He was carefully not to look at his neck and shoulders in the mirror. There were at least a dozen marks there. Bite marks, scratches and love bruises from where Sam sucked so hard he made the blood come to the surface.

“Possessive much?” Dean asked in his mind, and then spat the paste out. He leaned down to gather some water in his hands and wash the taste of his mouth. Just as he spat out the last mouthful and stopped the water he felt the little hair at his neck stand. A shiver run down his neck and he knew, was sure, somebody was watching him.

Cursing his lack of any weaponry at hand, he slowly straightened out and looked in the mirror, knowing that most paranormal things would show in mirrors.

There, just over his shoulder he saw the wave of blond, soft hair and pale, beautiful face. Her eyes were wide, intense, almost black and focused on his in the mirror. Her lips, so pink and wet, opened as if she was going to say something to him. 

Dean felt a creeping terror in his gut. No. Just no. He was not seeing Jessica here, in this dingy bathroom in this cheap motel room. She had no connection to him.

“No!” He wasn’t aware he was shouting. The only thing he knew was the terror he felt right then. The knowledge that he could not, would not listen to her. That whatever she said would be wrong, would be painful. 

In a rush of self preservation, he slammed his fist into the mirror. The glass shattered into a thousand pieces falling around him like a silver rain. In the sudden silence of the room he could hear his own breathing, hard and raspy like a frightened animal. 

He opened his eyes to stare at his still tightly clenched fist, blood dripping sluggishly from the myriad of tiny cuts. 

“Shit.”

He needed to get some coffee.

* * *

John closed the folder he was looking through as the waitress came with a coffee refill. It wouldn’t do to have her remember him because he was staring at pictures that were very obviously taken from afar and without the knowledge of the person on them. 

He thanked her and then returned to his research. There wasn't much useful information there. Just name and address, age and place of birth. Some family history.

And three, bad, grainy pictures of a young, 22 years old woman.

She was attractive. Pretty even. Not as beautiful as Mary was. Not really beautiful at all. She was too simple, too average for it. But she had this something, that made you look twice. 

She seemed tall, but he couldn’t really tell from a picture. She had blonde hair, shoulder length. That hair was one of those extra attractive features of her. Extremely thick, shiny, wavy and so very, obviously natural. He couldn’t really tell her eyes from the pictures. His first and foremost impression was that she was so damned young, barely Sam’s age and so... simple.

He expected something else. Maybe some dark, unearthly beauty, some power, strength to be visible in her. Anything, that would prove what two separate contacts had said to him.

She was a powerful psychic. That wasn’t right. From what he had gathered so far, she was THE most powerful psychic. 

It was strange, that even those psychics he knew, including Missouri, agreed on that. They were usually a smug bunch, arrogant even, not really keen on admitting that there was somebody stronger than them. But the very suggestion that they could go anywhere near this simple girl, had them turning tail and cutting the connection instantly. Even Missouri, so honestly concerned about Sam, couldn’t bring herself to even speak this girl’s name.

Sarah Andrews.

Right now she was his best bet at getting some help for Sam. At getting some info at least. So, he was going to approach her and ask for help, beg, threaten, bleed even, if it got him something to help Sam. To save his son. He would do anything she demanded of him.

And here lay the problem. From what he gathered, she was not going to want to speak to him. She was known for her power and that she refused to get involved. Ever.

So, he studied the file with it’s meager contents trying to work out the best approach, the best tactics to at least get her to listen to him. Nothing came to mind.

He couldn’t lie, this he knew for sure. If Missouri could read him so easily, then what could she do? Besides, he didn’t have anything she could possibly want, which didn’t leave him much room.

His cell vibrated then.

He looked at the caller display.

Missouri.

“Yes?” He said, quite surprised to hear from her this soon.

“John?” At the sound of her voice, John straightened out, his hand going to gun hidden under his coat.

His friend sounded awful. Her voice was shaky and unsure. She sounded like she was bleeding. Hurt. Almost confused. And he couldn’t remember ever hearing her like this. Vulnerable.

“Missouri? What happened? Are you all right? Talk to me!” He insisted, gripping the phone tightly, feeling his heart pound and sick feeling in his throat. God, not her too. He had so few friends. He couldn’t afford to loose one. Especially not now. 

Some more heavy breathing and then a cough that made him wince in sympathy. An angry, dry sound that made him imagine whole chunks of flesh being ripped out of the lungs.

“Missouri?”

“Just give me a moment, will you?” She snarled at him, but it was weak and strained, like she barely had the strength to breathe. “I’m fine.”

He didn’t believe her, but the fact that she was still talking reassured him. 

“Just tell me what happened. Do you need help?” He tried to stay calm and collected, but damn, he knew her for almost 22 years.

“Yesterday, I was thinking about your boy.” She said quietly, her voice still raspy and breathy, but steadier now. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being such a coward. You wouldn’t hesitate to help me. And I did. I’m ashamed for myself.”

“Missouri…” He started, surprised. He honestly didn’t blame her. It never even occurred to him. He knew her enough to know, that when she said she couldn’t help then she couldn’t. It wasn’t for lack of want, just abilities. He knew she loved his boys as if they were hers. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. I understand that you can’t...”

“I can.” She interrupted, with surprising force. “And I did.”

Another cough, much worse than the one before. It took her almost three minutes to stop the painful coughing and by the time John was starting to worry if she would suffocate or at least lose consciousness. 

Then her words hit him.

“Missouri, what did you do? What the fuck did you do to yourself?!” He barely controlled his voice, not wanting to draw too much attention to himself in the little dinner.

“Mind your tongue, boy!” She scolded him and he sighed in relief. If she had strength for this, she couldn’t be that bad. He hoped.

“Tell me. What did you do?”

“I... I tried getting something from... her.” Still, she wasn’t able to speak that girls name. But the hitch in her voice told John very clearly, just who she had in mind.

“You told me you couldn’t get into her head.”

He heard her swallow dryly. 

“I can’t. But I tried to get to someone close to her. Someone that knows her.”

John could hear the pain in her voice, the strain but right now all he cared was the information she could possibly have for him. And that knowledge, that even for a second, she was capable of ignoring his friend’s pain, made him hate himself that little bit more.

“Did you manage?”

Another pause and then a dry rattle in her lungs as she spoke again.

“Yes. I didn’t get much before I was thrown out but... the only way she’ll help you is if you make it personal. Nothing else will convince her. There is nothing you can say or show her that will change her mind. Make it personal.”

He loathed that cryptic stuff all the psychics he knew seemed to have down pat. Like ‘make it personal’ would be of any help to him.

“How?” 

“You’ll have to figure it out for yourself.” She answered with that sickening rattle in her lungs again.

“And you? How are you feeling? You said you were thrown out. Are you hurt?” He asked quickly, sensing she wanted to disconnect. 

“For what’s it worth, she wasn’t trying to kill me. I am so insignificant to her, she wasn’t even really aware of me. She swatted at me, like you would at annoying fly. Without thought nor intent. I will be all right, you worry about your boy now.” With that she disconnected.

John looked at the grainy pictures again. 

Missouri was one of the strongest psychics he knew or heard about. And she was like a fly to this woman? The implied that the scope of her abilities was beyond his comprehension. He couldn’t imagine something like this, nor did he believe that someone possessing this much power would be living as a semi poor student, in a cheap neighborhood. 

The door bell rung and another customer entered the dinner. John looked up, half hoping Dean would still show up for their scheduled meeting. He refused to think about the unease he felt every time he thought he would need to go to Dean’s room. Afraid of what he might find there.

So, it was more than shock when he looked up and saw Dean moving slowly in his direction. 

At the sight of his eldest son, his fork slipped from his fingers and hit the almost empty plate with a clatter.

The previous evening Dean had the ‘just fucked’ look. But today. Today, he looked like was either mauled by a bear or fucked within an inch of his life and then some.

He had dark circles under his eyes, like he hadn’t slept all night. And it disturbed John more than it probably should have, but Dean never had problems sleeping. He was one of those men that if he got still long enough, he would fall asleep no matter where or in what position. Nothing could disturb him. So now, seeing him with those dark circles under his eyes and pale skin, John felt a tight fist close around his heart. If he didn’t hurry the fuck up, he might loose both of his sons.

Dean’s neck was a mass of hickeys, bites and scratches. Teeth marks were clearly visible as if somebody wanted it that way. As if Dean was marked.

His lips were swollen, the lower one especially pronounced now. Dark with blood, with tiny cuts visible even from John’s seat.

Dean moved slowly, in that careful way that screamed of hidden injuries. John wondered what he hid under his clothes, just what kind of marks the demon had left on his body; how badly had he hurt Dean?

John had to close his eyes for a moment, just what did he let Dean do? He basically invited a demon to his bed! Jesus, the stupidity of it all hit him then, making him gasp. Dean could have died that night, could have been damaged beyond repair. And he let him do it. He. His father. John felt his failure with a sharpness he had never felt before.

As Dean sat opposite him, almost managing to hide the wince the move caused, John noticed the angry, red bruises on his sons wrists. Now peaking out from underneath his leather jacket. 

They were just bruises, the skin wasn’t even broken but it caused a stampede of panicked thoughts through his mind. Did Dean try to stop and got restrained for his trouble? Was he forced into something he didn’t want? Just how badly was he hurt?

He opened his mouth to ask, painfully aware of the fact that Dean was avoiding his eyes, but shut in without making a sound. The young waitress appeared suddenly and Dean started ordering his usual mountain of food.

At least he still had his appetite. 

But he didn’t flirt with the girl. Just ordered and looked away, forgetting her almost instantly, deep in his thoughts.

They sit in silence, for at least fifteen minutes. John not sure what to ask, afraid of the answers he might get and Dean focused on his food with a single mindedness he usually reserved only for hunting. They were both avoiding the issue. Which is ridiculous in itself, because discussing it was the single reason for this meeting.

“Dean...” he starts finally, his voice oddly unsure.

His son freezes in the motion of taking a sip from his cup. It only last a second, before Dean resumes the movement, but it’s enough. John sees it. Sees the fear in his son. The fear that John would condemn him somehow for what he had done. That John wouldn’t understand.

And it hit John, once again, with a bitter force, just how much Dean needs his acceptance. His approval. How dependable he is, how much he needs John and not in a good way. John realized, that by not letting Dean form any other bonds than with himself and Sam, he has hurt him. All those things Sam said to him before leaving, all those screaming matches… they never brought it across so clearly as this morning. As this moment, when he stares at his eldest son, bruised, hurting, determined and so very terrified of his father’s scorn.

In a flash of absolute clarity, John understands his power over Dean. Understands, that with one word he could break him. Hurt him like no creature or other human could. And he doesn’t want this kind of power. He is terrified or maybe horrified by the responsibility it brings. And the knowledge that he has failed both of his sons. One way or another. 

“Look at me.” He demands finally, tired of the uncharacteristic way Dean avoids his gaze. Hurt by the shame he sees in his son's body.

Dean was capable of many things. Brave, stupid, thoughtless or ruthlessly planned things. But he was never capable of refusing a direct order from his father. 

John sighs at the sight of his sons shadowed eyes, of his closed off face that doesn’t betray any feelings and gives out so much at the same time. John wanted to say ‘I love you.’, ‘I’m proud of you’ or at least ‘I care’ but he was never good at sharing his feelings.

“Are you all right?” He asks as gently as possible, trying to remember it’s his son. Not a soldier. Not now.

Dean is clearly taken back by this and blinks slowly at John a few times, before he manages to answer.

“Yeah.”

“You sure?” John feels one corner of his mouth turn up. “Because you don’t look so hot.”

And it’s enough. Dean got the message. His face relaxed almost instantly, his body slouched into that familiar sprawl in the booth.

“Just bruises. Mostly self inflicted.” He answers.

“You sure?” John held his sons eyes for a bit longer, making sure he really was okay.

Dean turned his eyes away finally.

“Yeah… it’s just.” He swallowed dryly. “It’s Sam, you know? And... not, at the same time. And it’s... it’s just fucking with my head, that’s all.”

John wanted to say “yes, I understand” but did he really? His sons had an incredible understanding, a relationship he never really understood. Even apart from Sam’s attraction, there was always a bond that could not be broken. Dean was so fiercely protective of his little brother. Sometimes it seemed that Dean was as much a father to Sammy as John. 

Besides he has seen and done many exorcisms, but never on somebody he knew or somebody so close to him. It was a blessing that he didn’t have to see his youngest son possessed by a demon. He wasn’t sure he would be able to live through this. It made his admiration of Dean and his sheer strength raise up a notch.

He walked a dangerous line, played a game no mortal ever should, but seemed to manage it so far.

“Just promise me not go too far?”

Dean shot him a look, ready to defend his actions, his need to protect, save Sammy.

“Listen to me first.” John stopped the argument, “if you let... Sam... hurt you while he is under the influence of the demon and then he comes back to us, do you think he would forgive himself for that? You know Sam, probably better than me at this point, would he be able to live with the knowledge that he hurt you?”

Dean licked his lips, eyes slightly wild and determined. When he looked at John again, there was no hesitation in him.

“He can’t feel guilty if he doesn’t know, right?” 

John leaned back and exhaled slowly to regain his composure. So this was how Dean was going to play it. 

No one really knew what was going on in Dean’s head. Not him, not even Sammy probably. Hurting or not, Dean was going to fake his way through it, leaving both John and Sam none the wiser. It made John wonder how may times Dean had to do it before, to become so fucking good at it.

“What is that?” Dean pointed the folder, obviously trying to change the subject. And John went for it. There wasn’t much else that could be said without both of them ending up hurt and with a lot more information they didn’t want to know.

“I was trying to find someone who would know about the weapon you described, the one that started it all? Well my contacts came up with this.” He pushed the folder towards Dean. “She is supposed to be a very powerful psychic. Probably THE most powerful one, too.”

Dean leafed through the pages, scanning them quickly.

“I’m smelling a ‘but’ here.” Dean prompted.

John winced.

“Yeah, there is one. A very big one also.” He swallowed the rest of his coffee. “She doesn’t get involved. At all. So I have been studying the file and trying to figure out a way to get her to listen to me. Lying is obviously out of question. I don’t have millions to offer. ”

“That’s all?” Dean raised his eyebrows.

“No. I have only one clue how to approach her.” John hesitated.

“What?”

John sighed and then said:

“Make it personal.” He set the cup down with much more force than strictly necessary, his temper flaring. “How am I supposed to make it personal for her?” John wondered, irritated at the obscure clues.

Dean snorted, stirring his coffee.

“Fuck her. You can’t make it more personal than that.”

John looked at his eldest son reproaching.

“Sex is not an answer to everything.” He scolded.

Dean leaned back in the booth, his face loosing the usual smirk. He looked unusually serious. He took the picture in his hand and looked at the woman again.

“She looks young. Probably around Sammy’s age. Doesn’t seem the easy type. If you manage to get her into bed, she’ll do a lot for you. After all, what is a favor or two after letting you inside her body?” 

John stared at his son, at the casual analysis of a woman simply from a picture. What saddened him, was that Dean was probably right. He was always, always, right about sex and women. It hurt John to realize that he was probably the reason Dean saw sex as just another skill he had. A pleasurable one, but just a skill. It never held the wonder, the feelings it should. It wasn’t something intimate. Maybe for the first time he realized, that Dean probably hasn’t been intimate with anybody in his life.

“Besides,” Added Dean with his smirk back “You have this haunted hero look going on, and chicks dig it.”

John was not going to think about the awkwardness of getting tips on sex from his son. Thank you very much.

“We shouldn’t meet anymore. Not until one of us knows something important.” Dean announced suddenly.

“Why?”

His son looked out through the window.

“I’m pretty sure Sam is watching me. It wouldn’t do for him to know what you are up to. If he stays focused on me, then you should have a free hand.”

John nods his head, trusting his son’s instincts.

“Only phone calls, then.”

“Let me know how the psychic thing goes. I have something to check out.”

“What?” John caught the strange note in his son’s voice.

Dean stood up.

“Yesterday, Sam killed someone. I need to know who.”

With that Dean left, not even sparing a glance at his father. John didn’t ask how Dean knew it. Too afraid of the answer, probably.

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

Dean leaned on his beloved car and took in a few deep breaths. The copy of a police report slid from his nerveless fingers to the dirty pavement.

 

Yeah, he knew Sam killed somebody before he came to him in the hotel, Sam still had marks to prove it. But... he never expected something like this. Stupid really. It was probably the obvious reason for this whole mess.

 

So that the guy in charge could have himself a perfect killer.

 

The gory pictures flashed through his mind and he had to swallow bile that rose in his throat.

 

A small but extremely well protected villa on the outskirts of the city.  Eight, heavily armed security men, one stranger that came through the front gate.

 

Not a single camera out of twenty six in the house had captured the man’s face. Not a single bullet hit its mark as one guard after another was ripped to shreds. Cut with a strange, curved blade. Ruthlessly, efficiently. Messily.

 

One target. The owner of a bunch of highly successful, probably mob related, night clubs. He was cut open and vivisected on his own bed.

 

The only survivor was the maid but she was in too much of a shock to do anything else than cry. She probably hadn’t seen anything anyway.

 

When he got his Sammy back, he better not remember all this. Because his Sammy wouldn’t be able to survive knowing he did such things, killed so many people.

 

Right there and then, Dean decided to stop keeping score. It was best if neither of them knew the real number of victims. His only consolation was that they were armed. The only unarmed and probably innocent person in that house was the maid, and she survived without a scratch on her.

 

Suddenly he felt the now familiar sensation of the little hair on the back of his neck standing up and  a gentle shiver that runs down his body only to settle down in his groin.

 

Slowly, already knowing what he will see, Dean turned around, his eyes scanning the alley he used to park his car in.

 

Almost directly behind him, leaning on the wall was Sam. Dressed like he was in the bar. Long, black leather coat, black jeans and some kind of long sleeved, dark shirt. It’s still strange to see Sam dressed in black from head to toe. He was never a cheery person, never one to wear sharp colors, but he preferred blue, light gray, green, white. This... this made him look pale, alien, so very different from his Sammy. And maybe that was the reason?

 

His head was lowered slightly, enough for the unruly mop of hair to fall over his eyes, obscuring them completely. There weren’t any lines on his cheeks as far as Dean could see.

 

Sam stood leaning back on the old, brick wall. Those ridiculously long legs spread enough that the dark cloth of his jeans stretched over his groin like a promise, or a threat maybe. The thumb of his right hand was hooked over his front pocket, the other flat against the crumbling bricks. His long, graceful fingers spread out on the wall, making Dean remember all those things he could do with those hands. In a flash, Dean became so blindingly hard it hurt, at the memory of those fingers inside him, stretching him, penetrating, owning, hurting, making him feel like he has never felt before.

 

Dean had to swallow, his mouth suddenly dry. And really, it was ridiculous just how turned on by Sam he was.

 

Sam finally moved, raising his head. His eyes were as black and terrifying as he remembered them. No pupils, no whites... nothing but liquid blackness. Flat and dead, but not empty. After what Dean saw in those eyes the night before, he could never think of them as empty. There was still his brother in there. He knew it now.

 

“Why are you doing this Dean?” Sam asked in his newly acquired, low, thick voice that did all kinds of things to Dean’s insides. “It’s only going to hurt you.”

 

Dean looked at the folder still lying on the ground and thought about the pictures inside.

 

“I needed to know.”

 

Sam moved them, pushing himself away from the wall and Dean couldn’t take his eyes of the way his muscles shifted under the dark cotton, how the cloth stretched over his beautifully defined body. He couldn’t stop himself from remembering how that body looked naked and wet, that perfect skin smooth and pale. Soft like nothing he had ever touched.

 

Moving quietly, gracefully like water, Sam approached the car. One of those long fingered hands reaching to the gleaming hood of the Impala; keeping Dean’s gaze captive, Sam circled the car, his hand trailing the shiny metal like a caress. And hot damn, but Dean always loved this car. And now, the obvious suggestion in Sam in connection to his beloved car made Dean hotter than ever.

 

He felt like a hormonal teenager, when even sneezing turned him on. At this rate he would die of a heart attack or exhaustion before any supernatural being had a chance to have a go at him.

 

Dean kept his place, resisting the urge to take a step back for every step Sam took. He stood his place and stared at Sam, defiantly, daring him to say something, do something.

 

A tiny grin tugged at the corners of Sam’s mouth. Just a curve of his lips, but it was enough for Dean to know that Sam received the message. The challenge.

 

Finally Sam stopped, barely inches from him, invading his personal space. So, the game was on.

 

“I don’t want you hurt.” Whispered Sam in that low, husky voice that seemed to bypass Dean’s ears and mind and go straight to his cock, making it twitch and leak a little.

 

Dean leaned back on the car, his body relaxed, a cocky smirk on his lips as he tilted his head back. He was a good looking man and he knew it dammit. Dozens of women and men told him that enough. He also knew how to look even better. He exposed his throat; the same one Sam couldn’t leave alone just few hours before, the flesh bruised and marked with his teeth, his tongue, his lips.

 

Like magic, Sam’s black eyes focused on those bruises almost instantly, trailing each shape, each ridge and purple mark with such intensity it felt as if he wanted to see right through Dean. And maybe he did.

 

“I don’t believe you.” Dean said. Low and husky, one of his hands reaching to Sam’s neck and fingers sliding into the silky hair. “I think you want to hurt me, mark me. Make sure everybody sees I’m yours. You want to own me, don’t you?” Dean couldn’t help himself, couldn’t stop pushing. He needed to know just how far will this Sam let him go before he snapped. For a demon possessed person, he was incredibly patient with Dean.

 

Sam licked his lips and let loose a low, almost growling sound. He caught Dean’s hair with his left hand and pulled back, making him arch even more, to the verge of pain and then his lips closed over one of the bruises. Hot, wet and hard as he sucked and mauled the delicate skin there, making the bruise red and angry again. Marking Dean.

 

He couldn’t quite stop the groan that left his throat as Sam worried on the already oversensitive skin. Sam’s fingers were digging into his scalp, scratching a little and his other hand closed on his hip, hard, fingers covering the bruises hid under the denim and cloth. In almost the same exact places, making him remember, relieve the night before.

 

“Yes.” It was almost a hiss.

 

“Jesus,” Murmured Dean as Sam pressed into him, his jean covered cock rubbing against Dean’s belly hard and hot and insistent.  Sam was going to fuck him right here and now and Dean didn’t have a single brain cell working that could protest that somebody might see them.

 

And then the knowledge came that Sam knew it. Sam probably wanted it. Wanted somebody, everybody to see Dean like this, aroused, horny, hot beyond all reason. Just another way to make Dean his, just like the bruises and bites from the night before.

 

Sam’s hands were working on the fastening of his jeans now and his teeth were still on his neck, and Dean was sure he was going to start begging now. His cock was so hard, leaking already that he needed just a bit more stimulation to come like a fucking freight train, here, in the middle of a street.

 

Still it took him by surprise when Sam slid to his knees in one abrupt yet still graceful movement. His hand made quick work of tugging Dean’s jeans down to his knees along with his underwear. There was no teasing, no preamble, no warning at all. Just hot, moist heat closing over the head of his cock almost immediately after it was freed.

 

Dean had to shove his own fist into his mouth to stop himself from screaming and attracting attention. Jesus, but Sam was taking no prisoners here. His tongue stabbed repeatedly into the slit. The strangely soft-hard sensation making Dean shiver all over, the wet suction bringing him closer to the edge.

 

He slapped his hands flat on the Impala’s door. The feel of sun warmed steel under his palms, the incredible pleasure of wet mouth on his cock and the slight pain of Sam’s fingers digging into his naked hips was sending him into a strange zone, filled with only pleasure, power and senses. He could smell the leather coat Sam wore, could hear the almost obscene slurping sounds he made as he bobbed his head up and down, could smell the faint scent of gasoline and this unique scent only car’s had. Heat, dirt and metal. His naked ass was pressing into the door handle of his car, his face was warmed by the L.A. sun and his balls were drawing up already. With barely a whimper, he came, biting hard on his fist and pulsing spurt after spurt of come into Sam’s mouth. He swallowed, the sensation almost too much on his not really recovered from last night cock and Dean whimpered brokenly.

 

Sam however wasn’t going to stop anytime soon. As soon as Dean stopped twitching in post orgasmic tremors, he stood up, his hands still keeping iron hold on Dean’s hips, and kissed him. Hard, all teeth and tongue, and spit. Thrusting his tongue inside, he made Dean taste himself on his tongue. He stroked his tongue, almost petted it with his, explored every part of Dean’s mouth like a starving man, hungrily, impatiently. Simultaneously his fingers moved, sliding into Dean’s crack and then lower to the still very tender, sore opening. It was sensitive and swollen, and Dean mewled helplessly when Sam’s finger rubbed over the furled ring of muscle. He wasn’t asking, just letting him know, letting him feel.

 

When one of those slender, long fingers slid inside, Dean broke the kiss with a choked off moan. It was too much. He was sore from the night before and already over sensitive from his orgasm just now.

 

“You are still slick inside” Sam panted darkly, his lips brushing over Dean’s ear, moist breath fanning over his overheated skin. “I could just slip inside. You’ll still be open and hot.”

 

“Oh God, Sam!” He yelped, as Sam’s finger found his prostate and pressed, over and over again, making his cock raise again, already partially hard. It was so good, hurt so good that before he even had the time to think he was already kicking one leg loose of his pants while his hands fisted in Sam’s too long hair and pulled him into a kiss. Just like before, a thrill ran through his body when he felt Sam comply, just let himself be manhandled into position. He also let Dean control the kiss for a moment.  It exhilarated Dean to know, just how much deadly power he was holding in his hands right now.

 

When he felt his leg slip free from the restraining denim, he broke the kiss and said directly against Sam’s lips:

 

“Now, do it now.”

 

Sam, again, gripped his hips and lifted him up. And shit, but he was a strong motherfucker to do that without even a grunt. Dean wrapped his legs against Sam’s hips but it was Sam holding him up, pressing him into the driver’s door of the Impala.

 

Dean didn’t even notice when Sam got his prick out, but he definitely noticed when the blunt head nudged at his opening. It was a strange rush to be manhandled like that, lifted into position and then when Sam used his own weight to enter Dean.

 

Sweet mother of God but it hurt like Hell. Yet under the stretch and burn that made his eyes water, was something familiar, something so very fulfilling in the way Sam pushed his way inside, rearranging him on the way.

 

Dean’s hands closed on Sam’s shoulders, holding on for dear life as Sam pushed himself even deeper inside his brother’s body. He didn’t give Dean much time to get used to the painful sensation, to the incredible stretch before he started thrusting. Quick, sharp jabs of his hips that tore muffled screams from Dean, only Sam’s mouth stopping the sounds from escaping.

 

With each move of his hips, Sam brushed against Dean’s prostate, making him whimper and scream, pain and pleasure twisted together so tightly, they became indistinguishable. Dean’s now hard member rubbed over Sam’s shirt, smearing precome. The friction was a little too harsh, a little painful but it made Dean all the hotter, made him squirm in his brother’s grasp and when he felt Sam slam inside him once, and then stay there with his body arched into a tight bow, he came also. His eyes closed tightly, fingers digging into Sam’s neck with brutal force and whole body spasming in a painfully strong orgasm.

 

For long moments, Dean was perfectly okay with simply leaning on his car, with Sam pressing him into the Impala, keeping him upright. Because his legs were like noodles. His whole body felt achy and boneless.

 

Even before he opened his eyes, strangely content to stay in this position with Sam panting hotly onto his neck, his mind registered something. Something important.

 

He opened his eyes and focused his eyes on his fingers, still on Sam’s neck. Fingers that were under the silver chain.

 

And Sam didn’t react at all.

 

Dean felt a smile tugging at his lips. Yeah. Things were looking up for once.

 

“Dude, get off me. I’m bare assed in the middle of a fucking street!” He pushed Sam back, trying out his own legs. “And if you come back tonight? You ain’t getting anywhere near my ass, got it?”

 

*          *          *

 

            Dean was cursing Sam and his possessed libido all the way back to his hotel. He hissed with each bump on the road, swore each time he had to move to reach the pedals. He was exhausted, lack of sleep and too much sex finally catching up to him. And he could barely believe it. Him? Using a phrase ‘too much sex’? If this situation continued for much longer, he would totally lose respect for himself.

 

Waiting for the green light, Dean remembered the rush he felt when he saw his fingers under the thin, silver chain. Sam didn’t react at all this time. That made Dean think that he could get a chance at cutting that pendant off. He didn’t know how or when yet, but he knew it had to be soon.

 

He also remembered the way Sam touched him. All hard, possessive touches. But he was careful to bring Dean pleasure also. And Dean noticed that. Somehow he never pegged demons as considerate lovers before.

 

Shifting again, Dean remembered the gentle, almost reverent touches when Sam helped him dress. He acted so... normal, so much like he would have normally that it made Dean wonder. For the first time, he wondered if Sam was possessed at all?

 

He drove to the hotel not using his mirror. He opened the window all the way down and preferred to look back, even through it wasn’t really safe way of driving. But he couldn’t use the mirrors.

 

He was very proud of himself, throughout the whole ride, he managed to completely ignore the silent presence on the back seat, staring holes into him. If he ignored her long enough, maybe she would go away and leave him alone. He was too tired and sore to deal with this shit right now. Maybe not ever. He just. He had too much on his hands already, without a fucking *ghost* to boot. One that didn’t have anything to do with him.

 

“Ah, home sweet, smelly motel room.” He murmured sarcastically before shrugging off his jacket. He kicked his boots off, shrugged the over shirt off and fell face down on the bed, his eyes closing almost instantly. Normally, he would have put sigils or at least salt on the door and windows, but not this time. He was waiting for Sam, consciously inviting him. He didn’t know if salt would deter him or only anger him, but he wasn’t going to try and find out. That was not the goal.

 

Tired he exhaled, long and slow, feeling the tension leave his body and sleep take him into it’s embrace. Warm and sweet. He succumbed without a fight, without a thought to the spirit standing over him. Watching him. Touching him.

 

He was dreaming; he knew that. It was the kind of inane knowledge that was so obvious and normal, that it had to be dreamed.

 

He swore. Just what he needed, another dream.

 

This time when he saw her, it wasn’t a surprise.

 

Dean opened his eyes, only to find himself in an unfamiliar room. She was standing in front of him. In tiny shorts and a tee with smurfs on it. The same she was wearing the first and only time he saw her alive. Her long hair were loose, soft and very inviting. There was a sense of warmth and sensuality about her that just forced him to look. In moments like these, he didn’t have a problem imagining why Sam fell for her.

 

It took him a moment to realize that he had seen this room before. Once. Only then it was filled with smoke and fire, her body was pinned to the ceiling, and Sam was screaming on the bed, unable to move. It was a bad memory, the horror of seeing her die like this, knowing that Sam was in danger. Seeing it happen *again*.

 

Jessica just stood there, staring at him with those soft, gentle eyes.

 

“What?!” he snapped, irritated. “I’m sore and I’m tired and I just want to sleep!”

 

She didn’t even blink at his outburst, but well she was a ghost, a fucking dream. He couldn’t expect her to behave like a living person would.

 

Tired of this stalemate and unsettled by the ease with which she penetrated his dreams, which were his sanctuary for all those years, he huffed and scrubbed his face with his hands. He had to figure out what she wanted, because he really, really wanted to go to sleep. Without interruptions.

 

Dean remembered what Sam once said in the Roosevelt Asylum, to that girl that was caught in a room with a ghost. Communicate. Hell, he could try it. Maybe he owed her that much.

 

He looked up at her, still soft and patient, standing in front of him barefoot.

 

“What do you want?” He asked calmly this time, watching her for any response.

 

She didn’t make a sound, but she moved to one of the closed door behind her. She opened it. There was only darkness behind it. She looked back at him, her hair falling softly over her shoulders.

 

“You want me to go there?”

 

She didn’t answer, but she stayed where she was, one hand still on the door knob, eyes watching him calmly. He wondered about this. About her silence. Maybe she wasn’t deliberately cryptic. Maybe she just lacked the strength to communicate with words?

 

Now curious, he stepped through the door. It was only a dream after all. What could happen to him?

 

As it turned out, his mind was a scary place to be sometimes.

 

_“I love you, Dean. Tell Dad... tell Dad that I forgave him a long time ago. He was wrong, but I understand.”_

_Closing his eyes, cutting himself off from Dean, Sam reached into the chest and withdrew a strange, yet beautiful blade. It was  curved, elegant, reminding Dean of a claw and looked positively deadly. For a few moments nothing happened and Dean started to think that it was all a huge fucking mistake, when suddenly Sam screamed. Lightning after lightning burst out of the deadly looking weapon, striking the floor, ceiling, walls with earsplitting noise, filling the room with the sharp scent of ozone. The strands of electricity crawled over Sam’s body, forcing him to his knees, still screaming in pain and terror._

 

And shit, shit, shit, shit! He just couldn’t look at it again, couldn’t stand the sight of Sam’s ace, twisted in pain, pure agony. Couldn’t stand the sight of his strong brother on his knees. Couldn’t stand the terror of watching it all happen again, knowing that his brother was *dying* there and he was do fucking helpless to do anything. Useless. Broken. A failure.

 

He could sense Jess there, her presence a shadow from the corner of his eye but at this moment he didn’t care. All he could do was remember the pain, the sheer fucking terror of watching his brother reach for that cursed weapon. His face, twisted in pain. Mouth open in desperate screams and it was too much suddenly, the memory ten times worse than the first time he saw it.

 

He jerked back, forcing himself to wake up. Above all, he needed to get away from this memory, to fucking *stop* it before something inside him broke, shattered into a million pieces that could never be put back together again.

 

With his eyes tightly closed, not wanting to see her again, Dean curled on his side, pressing his face into the pillow. He forced his breath to even out. Slow deep inhales and exhales. He ignored the shivers that wracked his body and kept his mind very carefully blank. He was not going to break down over a memory. He did that enough in the last three weeks. Now when things were finally looking up, he was not going to break.

 

He felt a cold breeze on his back, making goose bumps appear on his arms. With his eyes still closed and hands clenched tightly into fists, he screamed enraged and hurt.

 

“Go away, go the fuck away or I will exorcise the shit out of you!”

 

The feeling receded leaving him alone again in the room.

 

 

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

John knew he needed to make himself as none threatening as possible, and it wasn’t an easy thing for him. He made a conscious effort to leave most of his guns in his car. He wouldn’t go unarmed but he couldn’t afford to be seen as a threat. He needed her to help him.

 

After much thought, he decided to wait for her in front of her apartment. He didn’t know where she was anyway, but she had to come back home sometime.

 

He had a lot of practice in waiting on something or somebody, spending hours after hours in his car or crouched behind some headstone in a cemetery.

 

She lived in an ordinary, quite old apartment building. Getting there wasn’t a hardship. Thankfully, there were only two apartments on each floor so there wasn’t much chance of somebody asking him just what he was doing here.

 

He set himself to wait, leaning on the wall hidden from view from the stairway.

 

*          *          *

 

Three hours later he had company.

 

He was sitting on the floor, head tilted back to rest against the cool wall he never heard anyone approaching.

 

“Meow!”

 

He jerked upright violently, and looked down at an almost white, long haired cat sitting in front of him. It was big; at least twice as big as ordinary cat and had the most amazing amber eyes. John knew this breed: Maine coon. Caleb once had a huge cat of this breed. A strong motherfucker.

 

This one was even bigger, but the long hair was making it hard to judge just how big it really was. Although it lacked a collar, John was sure this cat belonged to someone. Those were expensive animals.

 

“Meow!” The cat sat in front of him, its tail curled modestly over its paws and each time it made a sound it showed off rows of sharp looking teeth. John had a feeling it wanted something from him.

 

The cat looked at the door and then at him. And in that instant John knew the cat belonged to Sarah Andrews. Time to make friends, it seemed.

 

“Hi there.” He said gently, leaning towards the cat. “Just how did you get here, eh?”

 

*          *          *

 

John knew she was coming long before he heard her. It was getting dark outside. The cat, that had been cheerfully playing with the zipper of his jacked, occasionally getting a mouthful of skin instead of cloth, suddenly stopped and stared at the stairs. It took John at least five minutes before he heard the first faint footsteps, which meant the cat heard them long before she even entered the building. He wondered briefly just how did cats see the world with their senses so different that humans.

 

“Meow!”

 

He stared at the cat that was obviously trying to scream the house down and well stared, because he always had the impression that cats were supposed to be silent. Quiet. And this cat was talking at him constantly, making a whole range of noises that were anything but quiet.

 

John watched as the woman he saw on the pictures earlier appeared on the stairs, one large grocery bag in her arms, a black bag, packed full, swinging near her hip.

 

“T, you bastard. How the hell did you manage to escape again?” She sighed at the still meowing cat. “I hope you’ve been waiting here, hungry and cold for hours, because you so deserve it!” She kept talking, but her voice lacked any anger. She had a nice voice, deep and strong. She also looked taller, bigger somehow than on the pictures. She wasn’t a woman that you could pass by without noticing. She was a little on the heavy side, the pictures earlier didn’t show it but it suited her somehow. Tall and strongly built with very feminine curves, she looked like she could deliver quite a punch if provoked. Not a shy flower.

 

Just like he expected, her hair was one of the most attractive features about her. Long, wavy and thick, shining with dozens of shades of golden blonde color. Made you want to touch it, see if they felt as soft as they looked.

 

He waited for her to notice him, not really sure if she knew about him or not. For a while she was completely focused on the cat, obviously wanting to kneel and pet it, but the bag was hindering her too much.

 

Finally, she looked over at him, her eyes held no surprise. Only curiosity as she gave him a quick once over, assessing him obviously. There was a flash of... something in her eyes. An emotion, that made her eyes darken a bit. He noted, quite surprised, that her eyes were the exact color as the cat’s. Amber.

 

“Here, let me help you.” He offered, reaching out for the overflowing bag.

 

She hesitated for a moment, but then the cat turned away from her, wove itself around John’s feet and trotted towards the door. Those hours spent playing with the cat paid off as she watched the cat and then, with a barely audible sigh, she surrendered the bag.

 

He watched her open the door and let the cat in, then he followed her quietly to the kitchen.

 

“So...” She started unpacking the bag. “You obviously know me. Who are you?” She asked putting some things in the fridge.

 

“John Winchester.” He didn’t extend his hand because she had already turned her back on him.

 

“Why were you waiting for me, Mr. Winchester?”

 

He watched her watch him, watched her amber eyes slid over him again. She was more curious than scared. The question surprised him; basically everything about her surprised him. She was a psychic; she should have known his reasons right away.

 

“John please, and I need your help.” He said simply leaning on the doorframe, sensing that it could take time.

 

She rolled her eyes in a move reminding him of Sammy with painful sharpness.

 

“Figures,” She didn’t seem surprised nor pleased. “I think you are in the wrong place.”

 

He shifted, straightening, making himself bigger, impossible to ignore.

 

“It’s important. Lives are at stake here. Not only of people close to me but of innocent people. You have to help me.”

 

She smiled at him, a bitter half smile. In an instant she lost all the youth, her eyes became old and dull.

 

“That’s where you are wrong. I don’t have to do a damn thing.” In that moment she was a completely different person. Old, bitter, almost patronizing towards him.

 

“People will die, are dying!” He was taken aback by the change in her, by the refusal. She didn’t strike him as the uncaring kind. “You have to help me.”

 

She turned away, back to unpacking the groceries.

 

He took a deep breath, trying to control his temper. Yelling at her wouldn’t accomplish anything.

 

“Please, you have to listen to me at least.” If it helped, he was fucking going to beg. He could not let his son down now.

 

“I’m tired, my back hurts like hell, I’m hungry and frankly, I’m too exhausted to cook. I’m not in the mood to do anything at all right now. So could you please leave?”

 

He blinked at the sudden outburst. He watched her jerky movements, reading the anger clearly. He couldn’t let her throw him out, not yet anyway.

 

“I saw a Kebab place across the street. Let me buy you a meal.” He offered quietly.

 

He saw her eyes flicker over him again and then the moment she decided to refuse even when she wanted to go. She opened her mouth but he cut in quickly: “I won’t ask you for anything while we eat.”

 

Her eyes fluttered gently in his direction again and she let loose a deep sigh.

 

“Fine, but I have to warn you. I’m the kind of a woman that takes gifts that are offered without feeling the need to reciprocate. Just because you buy me a meal, won’t make me want to do anything for you.”

 

John found it kind of nice, that she was honest with him. No pretending here, no promises that wouldn’t be kept. Still he had time, to talk, to think, to make her like him. So he watched her carefully as she moved around the kitchen. Her apartment seemed a bit messy, but not too badly. Mostly it was just papers lying everywhere, books of every shape and size on shelves and in piles on every flat surface.

 

Watching her put on her shoes again, he asked the question that bothered him for some time now.

 

“Why did you let me in, in the first place?”

 

She looked away, her gaze loosing focus for a moment.

 

“You remind me of somebody.”

 

Her eyelids fluttered and it took John a moment to realize she was looking at his reflection in the window. She was, very carefully, checking him out. And not in a ‘threat assessment’ way.

 

They were quiet walking to the small restaurant, the silence strangely welcomed. He watched her, aware of her interest. She looked straight ahead, her eyes never straying towards him. Her hair, loose now, was falling in an inviting wave over her shoulders. He found himself wanting to touch them. Small things, like that, made him remember just how long it was since he had been with somebody. She was attractive to him, appealed to him on the most carnal level, but she was also so very young. Much, much too young for him to seriously consider sleeping with her. She was barely Sam’s age, for God’s sake. He remembered the look on her face as she watched his reflection in the mirror. She watched him, but definitely saw somebody else. He knew that expression; he saw it on himself every time he saw a willowy, tall blonde woman in a white dress. Every time looking at another woman made him think of Mary.

 

“Who was he?” John asked quietly.

 

She turned her head to him, her amber eyes catching the last of the evening sun making them glow with gold tint. Her expression was unreadable.

 

“I don’t know.”

 

Her eyes swept over him again, soft and gentle and yearning for something even she couldn’t name. John knew she had told him the truth.

 

*          *          *

 

“Show me your hand,” She asked after the waitress left with their orders and they were sitting in the corner booth of the small dinner.

 

Quite baffled, but willing to do anything if it made her talk to him a bit more and maybe listen to him, he extended his hand. It was ridiculous how… exposed he felt when she took his hand in hers. Physically, he was much stronger than her, he knew. Maybe it was the... unexpected intimacy of the act that had him off his game. She didn’t look at him, her gaze focused on his hand as she touched his palm gently, her fingers skimming over the calloused skin very lightly. He felt a sudden surge of heat through his body and it surprised him.

 

Yes, he had been with women in the time that has passed since Mary died, but he rarely desired them. They were only a way to release the tension when it became too much, a means to forcing his body into more effectiveness. It never meant anything and he preferred paying for sex, because then it felt less like a betrayal.

 

“You handle a lot of weapons.” She said quietly releasing. “A hunter. A warrior... not many of your kind around any more.”

 

“Why aren’t you afraid of me?” He asked, not withdrawing the hand, letting it lay on the table palm up, fingers curled slightly.

 

She looked up at him, her eyes pure amber. He couldn’t look away even if he wanted.

 

His breath hitched and a feeling of dread crawled on spider legs up his spine. He felt a heaviness on his chest, like a hand over his heart. Just there, heavy and real. She stared unblinkingly into his eyes, golden and silent, and he kept her gaze levelly. His life was in her hands, the presence, pressure, a live threat but he didn’t look away. He saw too much, was hurt by too many things to back down from just a threat.

 

She smiled at him, a real smile this time and the presence disappeared.

 

“Physically? I don’t think anyone could hurt me. At least no one has managed to yet.” She reached for the napkins.

 

John wondered how long this “yet” was. He had a feeling that it was a really long time.

 

“I must admit that I have never met a psychic that was also telekinetic.” He offered carefully, wanting to know more about her abilities.

 

She looked at him surprised.

 

“Psychic?” She asked, obvious bafflement in her voice. “I’m not a psychic. I never was. I could never read minds, never had visions or anything like that. I’m not really telekinetic either. The scope of my abilities is... very limited really. Basically, I can do only one thing.”

 

“What?” John asked, taken aback. Missouri was never wrong before.

 

“Kill.” She answered simply. “If something is alive, exists with any kind of energy... I can kill it. People, plants, animals, spirits, demons, souls...” She sounded so sure of herself.

 

“Demons? You can send them back?” It was... he couldn’t find the words for what it would mean.

 

She smiled at him almost patronizing again.

 

“I said kill. Permanently. I am not sending anyone back. They just cease to exist.”

 

John stared her. Like the Colt. If it was true she could do the same thing the Colt could, with the difference that she didn’t have a bullet limit.

 

He wanted to say something, ask her about it but the waitress came back with the food. He needed to know more, but he also needed her. He couldn’t let himself piss her off.

 

*          *          *

 

He watched her look up, stare at the stars barely visible in the city.

 

“I need to leave the city from time to time.” She said gently, with a sigh “I love watching stars.”

 

They stood in front of her building again.

 

“My son is possessed by... something. I don’t know what it is, so I can’t exorcise it. Can you help me?” He asked stepping closer to her. He could smell her shampoo and something else, something sharp and inviting, something very feminine.

 

She tried to avoid him, tried to move away without being obvious.

 

“I can’t.”

 

He caught her arm and turned her towards him, trying so hard to control his temper. Because she lied. He could almost smell the lie on her.

 

“It’s not enough Sarah. It’s my son, my child I’m talking about.” He made a conscious effort to let her go before he did something he would regret.

 

She looked up at him, looked him in the eyes. Only now did he realize that she actually avoiding that before, preferring to look somewhere else while talking to him.

 

“I don’t remember. I know I lived before. Many times. I know things, languages long dead. But I don’t remember.” She stared at him earnestly, scared for the first time probably. “I also know I don’t want to remember. If I push my abilities I could remember and I don’t want to. It would change me.” She took his hand, and raised it until the wedding band caught the light of the streetlamp. “I sense that if I remembered... I would become you. Driven by pain and grief...” She looked up into his eyes again, her eyes luminous and liquid “I would be dead inside.” She never said ‘like you’ but it rung clear in the air nevertheless. “And I love life. I love the joy the simple things bring me. I love that I can watch my cat play and laugh like a child, I love that I can get drunk with my friends and talk about the silliest, stupidest things for hours. I want to be able to feel joy and freedom, to live this life, not wallow in pain for the past that can not be changed. I love that I still have a kind of innocence, naivety even about me.” She let go of his hand, her voice almost gentle as she stepped back. “I don’t want to be like you John. I don’t want to see shadows everywhere, to see darkness on the brightest day, look back over my shoulder and look back into the past even as my life passes me by. I’m sorry John. I have lived that life before, and I can’t do it any more. I just don’t want to.”

 

He watched her, speechless, as she disappeared into the building, her words ringing in his ears like a blow.

 

But it was okay. He would come back. He was a Winchester after all. And they were nothing if not stubborn.

 

 

*          *          *

 

John finished drying off in the tiny bathroom. Unlike his sons, he never liked prancing about in only a towel. Maybe it was a left over from his army days, or simply a different generation thing, but he was never really comfortable with being naked.

 

He dressed, still careful of his injured shoulder. The damage must have been much more extensive than he thought if three weeks later it still hurt like hell. Or maybe he just didn’t give it time to heal and the injury got worse. He knew he needed to rest but how could he do that with Sam in this kind of trouble? It just wasn’t an option.

 

With a sigh, he pulled his old, ratty sweats on and an equally old tee. The clothes definitely had seen better days but hell, he was alone. It wasn’t as if somebody would see him like this and those were the softest, most comfortable clothes he owned.

 

John looked in the mirror. He could barely recognize himself. He looked old, tired. Helpless and kind of scary. It was a miracle Sarah hadn’t slammed the door in his face and called the cops. He stopped that train of thought. He didn’t particularly want to think about her last words anymore.

 

His inability to help his youngest son was tearing him apart. There was also guilt. Some for the fact that, however unknowingly, he played a part in what happened to Sammy, but mostly because of the rift he caused in his family. Now, looking back over the years, he understood that he could have dealt with Sam’s attraction differently. That he didn’t need to cut him off so completely. With a sigh, he reached for his toothbrush when he smelled it.

 

Smoke.

 

Cigarette smoke.

 

There were probably hundreds, logical explanations why his bathroom suddenly smelled of cigarette smoke but he decided to go for the most dangerous one.

 

Someone was in his room.

 

He reached for the gun he never parted with. He took it everywhere, even to the bathroom. He might get caught with his pants around his ankles, literally, but never unarmed.

 

Pulling the safety off, carefully he opened the bathroom door a crack.

 

What he saw made his stomach clench and heart falter.

 

For Dean’s descriptions of how Sam now looked, John wasn’t prepared for the changes in Sam. In his mind he knew it wasn’t his son but it didn’t help the rush of love and pain he felt at seeing Sam here, in his hotel room.

 

His younger son was sitting, lazily sprawled across the small, motel bed. His back rested against the wall, one jean clad leg falling to the floor, one foot flat on the bed, knee bent and elbow resting on it casually. Between his long fingers was a gently glowing cigarette. Mesmerized, John watched it make a slow ark in the

 

The shaggy hair fell into his eyes, obscuring them; the shadows in the room hid his son’s face almost completely. There was something fundamentally different about Sam. The way he sat there, sprawled, ridiculously sure of himself. Sammy was always self conscious about his body, about his height.

 

He looked different now. Dangerous somehow. Dark. Angry. John snorted mentally at the last thought. Sammy was angry ever since he reached fourteen; he was always angry about something. If there ever was an example of teenage rebellion than Sammy was exactly it. Sometimes John wondered how the hell he had managed to survive those years with Sam constantly in his face, with his son almost flaunting his unhealthy attraction for Dean. But he was his son damn it. John couldn’t even face the thought of loosing Sammy. Not like this. Not to the darkness he dedicated his life to fighting. Still, he wouldn’t get fooled. He knew what possession was. Knew that most families, parents never saw it in their children, the demon using the memories and character traits to fool the loved ones. He wasn’t going to let this demon fool him into believing it was actually Sam.

 

The sound of the hammer of his gun cocking was loud as a thunder in the otherwise quiet room.

 

The slow movement of the glowing tip of the cigarette was halted for a second, before Sam changed its trajectory and let it fall into the ashtray on the bedside table.

 

He moved slowly, his long body twisting with a kind of grace John has never seen in his son before. He turned and John had to rely on his experience not to crumble and fall to his knees. Knowing something, hearing it from Dean... it was nothing compared to the reality of facing Sam’s changed eyes like this, of watching the thick black lines cut through his face giving him an odd, alien look.

 

The black eyes, dead and flat, fixed on him and he had to fight down a crawling shiver of disgust. Jesus, it was his son!

 

“How did you get in here?” John asked, trying so very hard to keep the sheer terror out of his voice.

 

Sam turned to look at the windows with sigils drawn over them and the line of salt white on the floor.

 

“You really think that’ll protect you?” There was an odd mixture of curiosity and amusement in his voice. It was so matter of fact, as if those sigils were never any kind of obstacle for him. And those were powerful symbols.

 

Before John had the time to form any kind of response, Sam turned his dead, black eyes towards him again and slid his gaze to the gun still held securely in John’s hands.

 

“And this?” He unfolded his long figure from the bed, standing tall and dark against the shadows of the room. “Just as useless.”

 

Acting more on instinct than on any kind of actual thought, John raised the gun and leveled it at his son. He knew it wouldn’t kill the demon, nor really hurt him either but he needed to at least feel in control, needed something familiar to ground him.

 

“What do you want?” John asked trying to sound more in control than he really was.

 

Sam cocked his head to the side, his eyes still dead and flat.

 

“What’s the matter DAD?” He slurred the last word, making it sound like a low hiss reverberating through the dark room. “Aren’t you pleased to see what has become of your son?” there was a distinct mocking quality to Sam’s voice. It made John wonder just how big the rift between his youngest son and him was.

 

“You are not my son.” He said firmly, not willing to play the demon’s games.

 

Sam’s mouth twisted in a bitter parody of a smile.

 

“Oh, really?” One move of his son’s hand and he was two feet in the air, both arms stretched outwards on his sides. Force, like a lead weight kept his arms twisted in an unnatural angle, muscles staining to resist the pressure.

 

The room was still quiet; the only sound was his harsh breathing. Sam stood tall and dark in front of him, no expression on his face, his skin pale and almost luminescent. John felt as if lead weight pulled him, pressed at him, forcing him into position, molding him as Sam wanted. His gun slipped from his fingers and floated towards Sam.

 

His youngest son didn’t even look at it, never taking his eyes from John’s face. The gun clicked as the safety was put back on, and then, still hovering in the air, between John and Sam, the gun disassembled itself piece by piece. As if it was on show for John.

 

“I am more your son now than I have ever been.” The voice was deeper, lower than Sam’s. Husky and heavy like molasses. It touched something deep inside of him; it made a strange wetness to come to his eyes.

 

“No.” He whispered. “This is never what I wanted for you.”

 

Sam’s eyes never moved from his, black and endless, not expressing any kind of emotion.

 

“Isn’t it? I’m a perfect soldier now, just like you always wanted.” The pressure on his arms and chest intensified, causing him pain as his muscles strained to counteract. His chest tightened, pain shooting down his spine as his back bent backwards into an uncomfortable angle.

 

“No. I just wanted you to be strong. I just wanted you safe.”

 

Something flickered over Sam’s face, the black eyes almost showing an emotion, but it passed quickly, his face empty and eyes hollow once again. Only his lips, curled in a bitter grin expressed anything.

 

“Then you failed, didn’t you? Because your son no longer exists.”

 

“No! You lie. He is so much stronger than you!” John snarled, even when his arms were jerked back and his injured shoulder screamed in pain, white hot sparks of agony shooting up his neck and down his torso, almost paralyzing that half of his body.

 

Something changed in Sam then, his lips curled into a snarl.

 

“What the hell do you know about me and him? Huh? He’s a stranger to you. You threw him out, remember? You haven’t talked with him for years and you claim you know anything about him?” the younger man raised his hand and John screamed in pain as he was pulled in opposite directions, his tendons and muscles screeching in protest, his heart thundering in his chest. The pain enveloped him, encircling his chest in band of steel that kept getting tighter and tighter, making it hard to breath. “As a father you failed him so completely...” He murmured as an afterthought and the pressure intensified, forcing John to pant in an effort to chase the back spots from in front of his eyes.

 

“Do you want to know something?” Sam leaned towards him, so close that John could actually smell the scent of his skin that hasn’t really changed since he was just a baby and John used to give him baths. “He could do this even before he left for college.”

 

Another twist, more pressure and John barely managed to choke back the scream. God, it hurt. His feet kicked, searching for any kind of purchase but they only found air. He wanted to speak, to say something but the pain made it impossible to even think.

 

“And you never even knew.”

 

Through the haze of rushing blood and hypnotic black eyes, he heard a click and the sound of door opening.

 

A sharp intake of breath and then, familiar, surprisingly calm and almost gentle voice came.

 

“Sam. Stop it.”

 

Shockingly the painful pressure lessened. John was still hanging almost two feet in the air though.

 

He managed to pry his eyes open, not really sure when he closed them. Just over Sam’s shoulder he could see Dean. His older son looked scared, his eyes flicking from John to Sam’s still form. Slowly, like approaching a wild animal, Dean reached out to Sam. His hand closed over Sam’s outstretched arm, fingers curling around the strong wrist.

 

Sam’s eyes never left John’s face.

 

“Let him go.” Dean said gently, pulling Sam until the younger man turned slightly towards Dean. “Please.” Dean whispered, guiding Sam closer towards him. Pulling him, Dean’s other hand reaching to Sam’s neck.

 

Dean shifted his stance, his body open and inviting and tilted his head sideways a little. He pulled Sam very slowly to himself, guiding his brother’s face to his neck, inviting an embrace. There was so much love in the way he waited for Sam, so much emotion, so much incredible trust it made John’s heart break.

 

He watched as his demon possessed Son complied like a child, curling his large body around his older brother, his face disappearing in the crook of Dean’s arm. John watched as Dean’s hands slid over the leather covered back, watched him pet Sam gently, his eyes closed and breathing steady. He knew, he trusted that Sam would let him do this. And Sam, even in this state, more powerful than anything John had encountered before let Dean control him. Let himself be pulled away. Complied.

 

“Let go.” Barely a whisper, a kiss pressed to Sam’s temple almost, but not quite brotherly in its gentleness and he felt it. John felt the pressure dissipate, felt himself be lowered almost carefully to the ground. When his feet touched the floor, the force disappeared completely.

 

John stumbled, his knees buckling and ended up sitting heavily on the bed, watching his sons embrace.

 

Sam was still eerily still in Dean’s arms but complacent in a way that he never was with John. He watched, mesmerized, as Dean’s finger stroked the too long bangs, threaded through the silky hair in a gentle, soothing massage as if Sam was something fragile and infinitely precious. Watched Dean’s body shift to accommodate the bigger frame of his brother, watched Dean fold himself around Sam as if trying to protect him from the world outside their embrace.

 

“Thank you.” Dean whispered, gently rubbing his stubbled cheek against the side of Sam’s head, his fingers still caressing his brother’s scalp, his other hand pulling him even closer into the embrace.

 

John saw Sam’s jaw move and knew he said something but he couldn’t hear the low murmur. He only saw the way Dean seemed to loose the last of his tension in the shuddering exhale of breath.

 

“I know Sam. I know.” Dean opened his eyes and looked right at John, his eyes dark but soft. They crinkled at the corners as his eldest smiled at him with only his eyes.

 

John was always aware of the special bond between his two boys but never this acutely. He never actually saw it with this kind of clarity. Sam and Dean, they always had a special relationship. The way Dean could reach Sam when even John couldn’t. Long before the conflict between John and Sam started, Dean was always the one who could reach Sam when everything failed.  John closed his eyes, remembering when he realized the connection between them, this incredible bond for the first time.

 

//

_It was just a freak car accident; a drunk motherfucker slammed his truck into their car. He and Dean were okay, only minor injuries on them. There was glass everywhere, his ears were still ringing but it was unimportant. The only thing John was aware of was Sam howling in pain on the backseat._

_“Sammy, just let me see. Let Daddy see.” John tried pleading, begging his son to let him see. But his son only cried harder, his fingers curling around his stomach and twisted away from his touch, face contorted in pain, wet with tears._

_“Please Sammy.” He begged, afraid to use force, but he needed to see._

_Jesus Christ, Sam was BLEEDING, his little hands red with the thick liquid and, oh God but the blood was DRIPPING down and Christ, John was so scared, so fucking scared right now._

_He had no idea just how bad Sammy was hurt and he wasn’t letting him SEE and John was too afraid of aggravating the injuries to pull Sam’s hand forcefully away._

_There was glass everywhere, people screaming but it was all in the distance, all in another world. “Sammy, God...” he reached for his youngest son, but he squirmed away, curling himself into the tiny space in the back of the car. “Jesus just... Sammy, Please!”_

_More blood. Red and thick and Jesus it was TOO MUCH, too much for someone as small as Sammy was. Only eight years old, he was smaller than most children his age, skinny and bony, he looked fragile on a good day and now, pale, crying, nearly hysterical clutching at his stomach he looked like a broken toy._

_John barely heard the other door opening, too focused on trying to reach his panicked son._

_“Sammy.” The shaky voice was familiar and he looked up to see Dean crawling from the other side, his face scratched and bruised from the crash, an ugly bruise already forming on his left arm. It must have hurt, to be crawling like this through the backseat but he never flinched, calling his younger brother’s name all the time, never showing the pain and fear he must have felt._

_In that moment John felt such pride swelling in his chest it made it hard to breath._

_“Dean! Hurts...” Sammy whimpered shakily and John was surprised to see Sammy turn towards Dean, shocked to realize that Dean had so easily penetrated the panicked and painful fog clouding his little brother’s mind._

_“I know, I know, Sammy. Just... let Dad see okay?” Dean crouched awkwardly half on, half off the seat his fingers already reaching for the bloodied, clenched hands Sammy kept pressing to his midsection. John prayed that whatever was bleeding that it wasn’t Sammy’s stomach. But there was so much blood, so fucking much, dripping down onto the floor of the car._

_He watched Dean’s hands closing over Sam’s and when he saw Dean pull them away, John snapped his first aid kit open. They had no time to loose..._

 

Now, looking at them together he still saw that bond, maybe stronger than it ever was before. He saw the trust between them, the way Dean wasn’t afraid of Sam even in this state. Saw the way Sam responded to that trust, calming and gentling. Letting Dean pull him away, listening to Dean. He wondered if Dean understood the power he had over his brother?

 

John watched, unable to make even the slightest sound, as Sam finally moved, shifting, raising his head until his lips brushed Dean’s jaw. He watched as Dean’s eyelids fluttered and closed, his head tilted back another inch granting Sam access.

 

In the silence of the room he could only hear his heart thundering in his chest as he watched his youngest son’s lips slide over Dean’s stubbled chin until they reached the lips. Not wanting to see it, but unable to tear his eyes way from the display he watched as his sons started kissing. Watched as Sam’s lips close knowingly, demandingly over Dean’s. Watched Dean submit to the kiss willingly, completely, an almost submissiveness in his posture. Sam was all sharp lines and darkness, big body, strong hands now moving up Dean’s arms. Dean was all light, life and love so very evident in each move, in the way he shifted his body to accommodate the larger one of his brother. There was a connection between them, the way their bodies just fit together soft and easy that screamed at John. He couldn’t not see the way Dean almost submitted to Sam, the way Sam slowed down, how careful he was. Like shadow and light, they completed each other in a way John has never seen before.

 

After a moment or maybe an hour Dean pulled back from the kiss. But he didn’t break the connection between them. One of his hands still petting Sam’s hair, the other curled in Sam’s shirt in a way that seemed just painfully comfortable for John. It seemed that as long as Dean was touching Sam, his little brother was ignoring everything around him.

 

“Let’s go.” Dean suggested gently, still very close to his brother, touching him constantly.

 

His eldest son moved towards the door, one hand still fisted lightly in Sam’s coat, pulling him along, not letting him loose focus. Still, Sam looked back at John, his eyes black and flat, completely impossible to read. John expected something, maybe a farewell blow, anything violent. But nothing happened, his youngest son just stared at him for a few seconds before letting Dean pull him out the door.

 

 

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

It was the pounding on her door that woke her up. For a moment she just blinked blearily at her ceiling trying to shake the sleep off. Sarah pushed the covers away and got up, stumbling a bit, her legs still half asleep.

 

“Damn.”

 

The pounding never stopped and it was grating on her nerves already.

 

“Coming!” She yelled, wondering if she should put something on. She looked down on herself; the same four sizes too big tee and boxers she liked sleeping in. She looked horrible but hell, at – she looked at the digital watch on the bedside table – 3 a.m. she had a right to.

 

She left her bedroom and stumbled into the corridor, barely avoiding stepping on T, the cat trying to walk between her legs. She could already feel him, the intense life energy that was his signature. The man she met only a few hours earlier. John Winchester. The first man in a very long time she felt a spark of interest towards. But hell, it was just such a bad idea. Such bad, bad idea... Whatever he wanted, he wasn’t going to get it at three in the morning. He should know better than that.

 

For a second she toyed with the idea of not to opening the door, just to ignore him and go back to bed but it was unreal. If anything, John Winchester was a stubborn man and he would probably keep pounding on her door until she caved anyway.

 

More awake now and angry, she opened the door in one jerky movement, ready to give him a piece of her mind when she caught sight of his face.

 

He looked older somehow. Broken maybe. His eyes were dark, almost black now with obvious signs of tension around them. He was dressed much like before, in jeans, dark tee, over shirt and leather jacket. He smelled like rain, his clothes slightly damp. She couldn’t stop staring into his eyes though. She could almost smell his pain, feel it like a live being there with her. His face was also lightly damp, one drop of moisture sliding slowly from his cheek, stopping on the edge of his beard.

 

Those eyes, soft and hurt seemed so familiar to her. Everything in this man spoke to her on a purely sensual level. His smell, his voice, the way he moved.

 

Led by some instinct she reached her hand to that single drop of liquid wondering if it was rain or tears. He caught her hand before it had a chance to touch his skin. His hand was rough, calluses from years of hard living scraping over her much smoother skin. His grip was strong, gentle yet clearly unbreakable. Like the man himself.

 

He closed his eyes for a moment, turning his face so that his cheek touched her palm, his skin cold and wet.

 

“Please.” One word. Tortured and full, like a thousand words in one sound. As if there were so many things he needed to say and it was the only way he could. “Please...” The corner of his lips rasped against her palm, warm and dry. The sound of their breathing was the only one in the silence.

 

*          *          *

 

John had so much to tell her, help me, help my son, save him... thousand of things, each more painful than the one before. It was too much. How was he supposed to ask a strange person to save his son, when it was supposed to be his responsibility?

 

“Please…” As pathetic as it was, it was the only thing that came through his throat. It didn’t even sound like him; the voice so rough and scratchy.

 

Her hand felt warm and soft against his face, a sense of something he hadn’t had in a long time. She smelled of sleep and something deeply feminine. Acting on instinct, on something very basic and primal he flicked his tongue out licking over the salty skin, tasting her. A shuddering exhale was her only reaction. She just kept staring at him, her eyes wide and soft, amber and inviting.

 

Still holding her wrist tightly he leaned down, not really sure what he was doing, what he wanted to accomplish.

 

He didn’t even kiss her. Just leaned in close, his nose resting against hers, his breath mingling with hers. He could see her full, moist lips just inches from his and... he wanted. Wanted. And it has been such a long time since he felt even that.  With a half curse, half prayer he closed that last inch of space between them and pressed his lips to her. Not really moving, just staying there, the only points of contact between them the lips and her wrist he was still holding tightly in his grasp.

 

She was tense, ready to back off. He could feel it. In the way her nostrils flared and her pulse beat against the soft skin on her throat. There was something very arousing in a female’s throat. The way it seemed softer, prettier than a man’s would. The lack of Adams apple and the way her throat connected in a long, inviting line with her collarbones made his cock stir, harden against the fabric of his jeans.

 

She pulled back, her breathing ragged. She reacted strongly, almost as much as him, to something almost innocent. He stared into her wide eyes, licking his suddenly dry lips and feeling heat envelop his body. She took a step back and he used the opportunity to finally step into the apartment and shut the door. It felt strange to do that though. She never before gave ground to him.

 

They were both silent, neither one feeling the need to speak. John could only feel the blood roaring in his veins and see her, still a bit sleepy and rumpled from bed, her defenses down, the distance she kept before now almost nonexistent. He could read her face easily, her eyes wide, pupils blown and lips parted slightly in an unconscious invitation.

 

When he approached her this time, she stood her ground, her eyes fixed on his lips the whole time. He slid his hand into the mass of silky hair he had wanted to touch ever since he saw her for the very first time and kissed her, properly this time. She made a strange, aborted halfway, jerky movement when he first touched her with his lips, trying to gain entrance. He tightened his hand in her hair, keeping her in place and asked again, more insistently, pressing his tongue until she gave in and parted her lips. The taste of her made him groan and pull her even closer, molding her body to his.

 

Somehow they managed to stumble to the bedroom without once breaking the kiss. John could feel the heat coming from her body in waves, could feel the still a bit sleepy softness in her and it turned him on something fierce. He always loved women in this state. Not asleep but not really completely conscious either, when all their walls and defenses were down.

 

He found the hem of the tee she was wearing and slid his now hot hands under it, desperate to feel naked skin. His fingers encountered the much softer than fashionable belly and slid up towards the heavy breasts he saw under the soft fabric. They were even more incredible than he imagined. Almost scalding hot to the touch, they were heavy as he cupped them in his hands. Yeah, there were definitely perks to her not being skinny like it seemed to be fashionable these days. He could feel the wide nipples tightening under his hands, the heat and weight driving him that little bit crazy. She was almost silent under his administrations, the only sound coming from her the shuddering little pants of breath.

 

When John felt her push him away, everything in him fought against it, the heat in his belly telling him to just ignore it because he NEEDED it… but he was a better man than that and he broke away from her, a half formed protest on his lips before he realized that she wasn’t trying to push him away. Just to make him take some of clothes of. She pushed his jacket off his shoulder, letting it fall with heavy thud to the floor due to the weapon inside, but she didn’t even blink. Her lips were red and swollen now from the kisses, eyes almost black. She needed him, just as much as he needed her right now. He shrugged his over shirt and tee off, throwing everything away.

 

He heard a strangled sound from her and looked down at her. Sarah was staring at his chest. As soon as he got rid of the clothes, she closed in on him, pressing her open mouth to his chest, using tongue and teeth to trace the ridge of his right pectoral muscle, biting down not so gently around a mouthful of flesh, while her hands skimmed over his stomach. He might be twenty years her senior but hell, he had a good body, the hunting keeping him in a great shape.

 

He hissed and curled his fingers in her hair again. It seemed he wasn’t the only one here with a fetish. It took some force to pry her away from his chest, both panting and not really coherent right now.

 

He had to tell her, before the last brain cell abandoned him.

 

“I don’t have anything.” He managed to squeeze past his dry throat. It was true; he wasn’t exactly planning on sleeping with her.

 

She stared at him for a moment, her fingers still splayed over his stomach, petting, stroking the muscles there. It took her a moment to process his words, her pupils so blown she looked like an addict.

 

“’s okay” She almost slurred. “pills.”

 

It was enough. He caught fistfuls of her tee and pulled up, stripping her of it in one smooth move, baring her to his gaze finally and shit, but her breast looked even more mouth watering than they felt. Full and heavy, with dark nipples were filling his hands to the brim. He reached around her, catching her under her ass and pulling up until she got the hint and wrapped her legs around him. The new position made the twin globes press into his chest making them both groan. It was all heat and pressure and Jesus but he missed it. She might not have been the most attractive woman ever, but she was so very feminine. Her scent, her softness it all spoke to him, aroused him, made him realize just how damn much he missed it. Missed a woman in his arms. Missed the comfort and pleasure a lover could bring.

 

He kissed her, grunting under the strain of keeping her up but the way her breath hitched every time his pectoral muscles flexed was so rewarding. Suddenly he felt twelve years younger and twice as attractive. There’s something about the way she smells, the way she sounds, the way her hands squeeze and grab at everything at once, his shoulders, his chest, his neck, pulling at his hair, as if she just couldn’t decide what to do. He feels wanted, needed, attractive, masculine in a way he hasn’t in a long time.

 

When they finally hit the bed and he let’s them both drop with little grace and much hurry it hits him, that he feels alive. Carefree, even if only for a moment. And he realizes also that yes, he is allowed to feel like that once in a while. What he did with his life? Mary would have hated.

 

He couldn’t think about it right now though. It might have been 22 years since his wife had died, but now, almost naked, getting hot and heavy with this woman, girl really, still felt like a betrayal, like he doesn’t have the right to do this. Somewhere in the back oaf his mind there’s this chant that its _wrongwrongwrong_ … but it drowns in the scratch of Sarah’s long nails on his back. It is muted by the herbal scent of her shampoo, in her taste as she initiated a kiss this time.

 

Pulling the boxers off her makes him smile because Mary also used to steal his underwear to sleep in. As soon as the cotton is off her, Sarah starts pushing and pulling at his belt, her fingers having trouble dealing with the worn leather. He pushed her hands away and stripped his jeans and everything he still had on as quickly as possible, leaning down to kiss her. Their teeth clash, the kiss is clumsy and wet, but shit, it’s hot. The way she is pliant and willing under him sang to him, stirring something very primal inside him. They are both in a hurry, impatient and clumsy with each other. As soon as he got rid of his clothes, he pushed her down again, relishing the feel of her legs parting to let him settle there, in the sweet, hot place between her thighs.

 

And he just can’t wait. He knows he should… foreplay… stuff… but he just NEEDS, he has to have her now. It’s been too long, too fucking long and his body is hot, his heart pounding furiously as if wanting to beat right out of his chest, his mouth is dry and his cock is so hard it HURTS, and she is here, WILLING, soft and wet and, Jesus, the feel of her slickness on his fingers is driving him INSANE.

 

He didn’t realize he is chanting it out loud, until he heard his own voice through the roar of his blood in his ears.

 

“Yes,” She panted breathily, her voice catching on the ‘s’ drawing it out. Her thigh pressed into his hip, her heel hooked over his ass and she pressed him down, more of a demand than an invitation this time, her hands splayed wide over his back.

 

He withdrew his fingers, unable to wait any longer. He had to grab his dick he felt so shaky, so damn on edge already and direct himself into her. She was so HOT and WET and TIGHT and Jesusfuckingchrist it was almost too much. He pressed inside, unable to stop and she arched back, her eyes tightly closed and her fingernails digging lines of fire in his skin. She clamped down on him even more, his brain short circuiting. Only this moment mattered. Heat and wetness and Jesus so tight! He withdrew slightly back and then thrust in as far as he could, desperate to bury himself balls deep into her because it was going to be fast, so damn fast. His hips jerked without any kind of direction from his mind, body acting only on instinct. Some part of his mind registered the sharp, choked intakes of breath coming from her, the stillness of her under him and fuck, but he was going too fast. He could read it in the tension in her body, in the way her fingers dug into his shoulder but even though he SAW all this he couldn’t stop. He was already on the edge, just a few more minutes to his release. He could feel the tension, the heat gathering in the base of his spine, trailing scalding tendrils of pleasure over his balls and cock...

 

Gathering the last shreds of control he still had left, he slid his fingers between their bodies, his fingertips finding the slick nub just above the place where his cock disappeared in her and he rubbed it, hard and fast, trying desperately to bring her off in time with his exponentially mounting need.

 

It was like magic. One long sigh and something in her loosened, gave in to him. He felt himself sink even deeper into her, until he just couldn’t get any deeper. After that it all became a blur of sharp movements, breathy sighs, the sharp smell of sex and sweat in the air, the unstoppable urge to thrust, to bury himself as deep as possible in the willing heat and wetness. He rubbed her clit hard and fast, desperate to bring her off. He knew that either way it was too fast, too clumsy to really be good but he just COULDN’T stop.

 

He felt her internal muscles flutter, clench around him and he finally let himself go, slamming deep and feeling as if every single muscle in his body clenched, rippled under his skin as if wanting to get out as the orgasm tumbled through him like a tide wave. His dick pulsed, spurted so hard it almost hurt. The pleasure was so good, so intense he felt his vision darkening. Jesus, it’d been so long he almost forgot how it felt to come inside somebody not thanks to his hand. Some part of his mind registered that he didn’t fall directly on her, landing halfway on the rumpled bed and halfway on her. Her lips ended up almost directly against his ear and he could feel the fast puffs of breath against his skin. He wanted to say something but managed only a half asleep grunt against her shoulder. Not really verbal, he opened his mouth and bit gently at the soft skin his lips were pressed against.

 

He mostly felt the vibration of her gentle laugh than heard it. She huffed something he didn’t catch at him and petted his head clumsily. He slipped into dream before he even noticed it.

 

*          *          *         

 

THWAP

 

THWAP

 

THWAP, THWAP, THWAP, THWAP!

 

John jerked awake as one of the THWAP’s landed, rather painfully on the most sensitive area of his body. Instinctively he curled, one of his hands shot down to protect his groin from the unknown assailant.

 

He still felt unusually relaxed, lethargic almost so it took him some time to wake up and focus his eyes on the not so small white ball of fur sitting on the bed near his hip. One of the cat’s paws was still raised above John’s groin the claws thankfully no where in sight.

 

John looked down at his hand covering his privates and at the cat staring at him with what he would swear was amused amber eyes and back again.

 

“THAT is not a TOY.” He stated firmly considering inching away but his pride wouldn’t let him back down from a fucking CAT of all things.

 

The cat stared at him unblinkingly like only cat’s seem to know how before making a big show of yawning slowly, making sure John got an eyeful of every single, sharp, white tooth in it’s mouth.

 

“Hey, no need to draw the big guns here buddy.” He thought about his rather tender flesh and those teeth and claws so close to each other and seriously considered scooting backward, his pride be damned. Right now the cat looked as if it could and WOULD be able to castrate him.

 

The paw still hovered over him menacingly.

 

“T!” Came Sarah’s voice from the bathroom door. The cat immediately pulled its paw back, starting to lick it furiously as it started purring.

 

“What are you dong?’ John wasn’t sure which one she was referring to, but judging by the way the purring intensified to some pretty awe inspiring level and the licking got even more furious, it was definitely the cat. It looked so busy right now, so innocent that butter wouldn’t melt.

 

“What did I do?” Asked John, baffled and feeling a bit stupid, lying naked on the bed, covering his privates and afraid of a CAT!

 

Sarah came to the bed and pushed the cat off, sitting down on the edge. She was dressed in a different kind of tee this time, a navy blue one, still at least five sizes too big. Her hair was slightly damp on the edges and she smelled of some fruity soap. She was obviously fresh out of shower and it disturbed John slightly, that he didn’t wake up when she got up.

 

“T is usually the one who sleeps with me and she can be quite possessive.”

 

“You sure it’s not possessed?” He asked watching the heavy shape of her breasts under the thin cotton.

 

“Quite sure, yeah.” Her voice softened and she leaned down, asking wordlessly for a kiss. He complied, reaching one hand to tangle into her loose, soft hair and using the other hand to pull her down and direct her until she was lying along side him, her fresh smelling body molded to his. He felt his cock twitch and cheered mentally. Not bad for a man his age. Not bad at all.

 

She traced an invisible line on his navel, just under his belly button.

 

“You were hurt here. A long, deep cut.” She said slowly, her brow furrowed in thought, making her look even younger and John feel all the more uncomfortable with the age difference. “You should have died from it. Death has left its mark of your flesh, here. A mark so strong I can see it even now. The healer must have been a pretty powerful one.”

 

“What healer?” He asked, confused. He had never used a healer in his life.

 

She looked up at him, here eyes the same amber shade as her cat’s. “The one that healed you of course. There are dozens of wounds, some dangerous, some small, that he or she healed. I can see them. They are like black stitches on a white shirt.” She looked at his chest again, her fingers trailing the invisible line again.

 

“There was no healer.” He insisted, unnerved that she could see so much of his secrets on his skin. She was both young and old and so very mysterious in the way she seemed so ordinary.

 

She looked up at him again, her eyes gentle but confused.

 

“Strange. I can see you are telling the truth. But I also see the tendrils of energy that are binding your flesh together even now, all those years later.” She shifted, sitting up. For a moment John was again distracted by the full and heavy curve of her breasts under the thin cotton. Very nice.

 

“Did you go to a doctor? Maybe the healer didn’t reveal himself to you? In some very rare instances, the healer doesn’t know what he is doing. Tell me. Tell me who tended to all those wounds that hadn’t left scars.”

 

John stared at her, his throat suddenly dry. He swallowed, almost painfully and answered, mostly to himself than her:

 

“My son. Dean.”

 

He closed his eyes against here amber gaze and the memory came rushing back. Different rooms, different states, but always the same.

 

_Him lying bloody and in pain on a hotel bed, little Sammy quiet as a mouse in the corner. Trying not to make any noise, trying not to hinder as Dean tried frantically to follow his father’s slurred orders. Trying to hide his terror when the wound just ... wouldn’t... stop... bleeding._

_Wide eyes in a too pale face, young hands trembling with fear, jaw clenched in an effort not to cry, not to show his fear. Fingers bloody and slippery as he pushed the needle through his father’s skin trying to gather the edges of the bleeding, jagged wound together._

_“I think it’s going to be okay,” Dean’s voice, so shaky and small, “it’s stopped bleeding already. You’re going to be okay Dad. Everything is going to be okay.”_

_The words like a prayer in the deathly quiet room, a desperate, heart wrenching plea._

 

He opened his eyes to look at Sarah. Her eyes were still focused on him. He wondered if she saw his memories like Missouri could. But he known her for such a short time; he didn’t feel comfortable asking about the scope of her abilities. And maybe he was just afraid of the answer.

 

Not wanting to talk about it right now, he pulled her down again, twisted until she was lying under him. Raising himself on his arms he slid down over her body until his face was level with her belly. The Tee rode up exposing soft, vulnerable skin and he nuzzled it with his beard, scratching lightly, enjoying the shudder it caused.

 

Before, he went right of the bat, no finesse and barely any consideration on his part. Now he would make it up to her. Besides now he wasn’t strung so tight.

 

“What are you…” She started as John pushed her thighs apart scooting even lower. “Oh.”

 

There was no more talking after that.

 

*          *          *

 

Dean juggled the soda bottle in one hand while he waited in line for the register. Dean raised his head just in time to catch the girl behind the counter checking him out. He smiled reflexively and winked at her, enjoying the blush and the shy duck of her head. She wasn’t really his type. Too young, too innocent, too... Sammy’s kind of girl.

 

As he approached the register, the girl opened her mouth to say something but not a sound came out of her mouth. Her eyes were fixed on his neck, on where he knew the huge ass, purple hickey resided.

 

In the distance he heard the door bell chime softly, but he didn’t pay much attention to it, quietly amused by the way the girl was still blushing.

 

He grinned, his trademark cocky grin and shrugged, putting the soda and six boxes of matches on the counter.

 

She wanted him, he knew. Dean was perfectly aware that with his leather and denim look, his carefully styled hair, cocky grin and devil may care attitude, he was every woman’s bad boy dream. Ever since he hit fourteen, getting laid was ridiculously easy for him. This time he didn’t think about anything more than some harmless flirting that led nowhere. He had almost more sex lately than he could handle, and damn him, he never thought he would ever think it. Shit. He might be getting old.

 

“Just this?” She asked, a little breathless, obviously striving for something to keep him in the store a little bit longer. Well, he was all for that.

 

Dean was just leaning in the counter, preparing to say something shameless when he felt the familiar sensation at the back of his neck. Almost like being watched but a thousand times stronger. He straightened out and felt a presence behind him. Dean recognized him long before he heard him and smelled his unique scent.

 

Sam.

 

Dean stilled, raising his eyes to the mirror above the girls head.

 

His brother stood behind him, tall and motionless. He had his ever present black leather coat on, opened to show the tightly stretched tee underneath. Large, black sunglasses covered his eyes, making his expression even more impossible to read. His hair was messy and one curled strand falling over the sunglasses, giving him a strangely rugged look.

 

A small smile tugged at his little brother’s lips, barely a curl of a lip and Sam leaned over him. One hand reaching over Dean’s shoulder for the stack of scratch-off tickets. He thumbed a few, so close to Dean the blond could smell the leather and the aftershave he used. Sam plucked the ticket off the stack. He kept it between his middle finger and forefinger for a moment, his head turning towards Dean.

 

The girl watched with wide eyes as Sam leaned even closer, his sharp nose barely touching the short hair behind Dean’s ear and said low and smooth:

 

“Buy this also.”

 

Dean shivered. Sam was so close he could almost feel the vibration of displaced air as Sam spoke, could actually feel the moist breath on his ear and sense the body so close to his back, almost touching. With a shaky exhale of breath Dean felt his eyelids flutter close for a second and his dick throbbed painfully, already almost completely, achingly hard.

 

Shit.

 

This want, this desire seemed to get stronger and stronger every time Sam came to him. When he managed to open his eyes and focus again, he was amused but not really surprised to find the girl staring at Sam with the same lust hazed look he was sure he was sporting. In his bad ass outfit and this dark confidence Sam was smokin’ hot!

 

It hit him then. Out of the blue. It was hilarious that even after his little bro’ fucked him within an inch of his life, Dean didn’t realize it. Not really. Not so completely like now, staring at the speechless girl.

 

Sam was hot.

 

Sexy.

 

Damn near irresistible and it had nothing to do with the spell.

 

With much effort Dean managed to straighten himself up and push away from Sam’s overwhelming presence.

 

“That’s all.”

 

He pulled some crumpled bills and threw it on the counter, hoping it’d be enough. He grabbed his purchases, including the ticket and crammed them into his pockets, ashamed of the way his hands shook.

 

Shit.

 

He shouldered his way past a still smirking Sam and all but fled the store.

 

He didn’t go far. Just behind the corner. He stopped there, leaning in the wall, his head hanging low between his shoulders. Breathing deeply and trying to gain some control over himself.

 

It was, probably, the first time Dean noticed his baby brother as a man, as a sexual being. And fuck, it hurt him somehow. Like he lost something important. Because somewhere deep inside, Sam was always Sammy. The little kid he almost raised.

 

He was so deep in his thoughts, so deep in himself he never heard Sam approaching. He almost jumped at the feel of a big, heavy, long fingered hand clamping down on his shoulder.

 

Dean didn’t fight his brother when he spun him around. He met Sam’s eyes evenly, no fear in him as he noticed that the sunglasses were gone and the black, liquid eyes stared at him with their usual flatness he hated with a passion.

 

Dean was almost, almost getting used to the sight of the two, thick, black lines cutting over Sam’s cheekbones. It freaked him out a little that the sight was becoming familiar, freaked that he would forget what Sam’s eyes looked like for real if it went on any longer.

 

“Did you want her?” The question was asked in the same dark, heavy voice and Dean felt it go straight to his cock.

 

“Did you want to fuck her?”

 

The last question was delivered almost against his lips as Sam fisted his hands in Dean’s jacket and slammed the older Winchester against the brick wall.

 

Before he had the time to respond, Sam’s lips were on his and Sam was kissing him. All teeth and tongue. Sharp, forceful thrusts that made Dean feel like he was fucked right through his mouth.

 

Sam was so aggressive, so forceful, that all Dean could do was hang on as one of Sam’s thighs wormed itself between his legs and pressed. High and hard. Making Dean moan and press against that delicious almost too hard friction, his mouth still full of Sam.

 

His little brother growled low in his throat and pressed him into the wall even harder, freeing his mouth only when Dean could feel his lips were bruised and swollen.

 

“You are mine.” Sam said very slowly, carefully spelling each word. ‘Mine.” His dark eyes were different now. Still black and terrifying but no longer flat, dead, without emotion like before. Now they were burning with some kind of unholy fire.

 

“No one will have you. Not like this.” Sam pressed his thumb to Dean’s swollen, wet lips and rubbed, relishing the moan that left his brother’s throat.

 

“Do you understand me, Dean?” He asked almost gently, leaning down to his brother’s neck and closing his teeth on the sharply visible tendon there. He bit down hard, stopping just shy of breaking the skin.

 

Dean hissed and his hips bucked into the hard thigh pressing into him. He was so hard it hurt. His hands were clenched on Sam’s arm, squeezing hard, but not trying to free himself.

 

“Sam...” Dean whispered brokenly, at the same time leaning his head sideways, stretching his neck, giving his brother as much access as he could.

 

Sam stopped worrying the already tender flesh and licked one long, wet lick over the whole length of the tendon, ending at Dean’s ear and caught the lobe between his teeth. With his other hand he reached for the hard bulge in his brother’s pant’s and rubbed hard. Making Dean shudder and buck helplessly into that hand.

 

“You belong to me brother. Body, mind and soul. You belong to me.” He whispered darkly, straight into Dean’s ear and stroked even harder, almost painfully.

 

The older Winchester couldn’t stand it any longer. With a shudder and a curse, Dean came splashing his release on the inside of his pants.

 

Throughout the shudders of his climax, Sam kept stroking his cock through the denim, but the strokes were much more careful now, much more gentle, easing him down from his orgasm.

 

It seemed his little bro’ had a thing for public sex.

 

With effort, Dean unclenched his fingers from around Sam’s biceps and thumped his head on the wall.

 

“Danm, dude, these were my last clean jeans!”

 

Sam’s lips twitched but didn’t curl into a smile.

 

Dean missed it.

 

He missed his brother smirking, laughing genuinely at something. He missed Sammy.

 

Sam let him go, waiting for Dean to regain his footing and then, slowly pressed his hand under the waistband of his jeans, then underwear, letting two fingers skim over the now overly sensitive head. Dean shuddered at the cool touch but said nothing just stared into the black eyes.

 

Sam withdrew his hand, fingers smeared in come and pressed those fingers against Dean’s swollen lips. He stroked them over the lips, painting them with come and then pressed his fingers inside the moist heat, making Dean taste himself.

 

Dean stood there, quiet, almost submissive, letting Sam do whatever he pleased. After a while, Sam leaned down and kissed his brother gently, carefully licking away all the evidence of his release from Dean’s lips.

 

 

Dean wormed his hand into the silky, too long hair and pulled Sam closer, stroking his scalp as they kissed. He stroked the nape of his younger brother’s neck slowly, gently, almost soothingly letting his fingertips catch against the silver chain around Sam’s neck.

 

Sam didn’t even tense, he didn’t try to break the kiss or push Dean away like before.

 

The kiss finally ended, with a barely audible “Mine,” whispered against Dean’s lips for the last time before Sam turned away and left, disappearing into the shadowed alley.

 

Confused and a bit wobbly from coming like a fucking freight train, Dean stumbled towards his car. It took him two tries to finally open the door. After he fell behind the wheel, he leaned back with a huge sigh. His higher brain functions were still on vacation, so he decided to rest here a bit before attempting to drive. He pulled the soda, that started it all, and took a long drink, wishing it was something stronger.

 

He shifted at the uncomfortable stickiness in his pants and the scratch off ticket fell out of his pocket, winking at him with its bright yellows and reds.

 

“Oh well, after all I bought the damn thing.” He muttered and reached for the lottery ticket, scratching off the three squares, not really expecting to win anything. He always believed these games to be a scam. That was why, when he looked at the squares, his jaw dropped.

 

500$

 

He won FIVE HUNDRED dollars.

 

Dean closed his eyes and remembered the way Sam thumbed through a few of the tickets before choosing this particular one.

 

Sam knew.

 

Dean laughed, half terrified at the scope of Sam’s new abilities, half thrilled with the possibilities.

 

“Damn Sammy, we have GOT to get you to Vegas.”

 

 

TBC

 


	12. Chapter 12

John forgot how it felt to actually wake up at a woman’s place. If he actually had sex, it was in an anonymous motel room and either she or him were gone by the morning light. But that didn’t happen often either. It always felt like a betrayal. He was a married man and he always would be. Still... he felt good.  This felt good.

 

Physically, he was more relaxed. The few hours of sleep made him more rested than the last three weeks put together. Surprisingly, spending the night with Sarah also affected him psychically. He was more focused now, capable of looking at things with a little more distance. The stress, the fear and anxiety of the last few weeks was easing a little. That didn’t change the fact that he felt oddly out of place standing in the small bathroom filled with all those purely feminine things, holding a <i>pink</i> razor of all things and wondering if he really should use it for shaving.

 

“Oh, for God’s sake!” He heard behind him.

 

He turned and made sure his face didn’t betray the amusement he felt. Sarah wasn’t a morning person. Not by a long shot. She was wearing the hugely oversized tee-shirt that she had pulled on sometime during the night. The tee was almost reaching her knees. Her hair, loose now, was falling every which way.

 

“Don’t stare at it like it’s going to bite you! It’s a disposable razor for Christ’s sake! You are not going to turn into a girl just because you use something that’s pink.”

 

“You are not a morning person, are you?” John asked not really managing to hide the amusement. Sarah paused, threw some of the hair out of her eyes and blinked at him sleepily.

 

“I guess not.” She agreed, her voice rough and unintentionally sexy.

 

Her eyes slid off his face. Lower. Skimming over his naked chest. So far he had only managed to find his underwear and jeans. The shirt was still M.I.A.

 

He wondered what she saw now, in a harsh light of day. Did she think he was old? More than twenty years her senior, he was surprised she was attracted to him at all. He watched her face, watched as her pupils dilated and she licked her lips. She obviously saw him just like she had the night before.

 

“You sure you have to go?” She asked slowly. An invitation.

 

He had to clear his throat, a wave of heat slowly encompassing his body.

 

“Yeah... But I still got time for breakfast. How about pancakes?”

 

She blinked at him, obviously changing gears.

 

“You know how to make pancakes?”

 

He smiled, wide and wicked.

 

“Best you ever had.”

 

Her eyes snapped up to his and she grinned back, catching the subtext.

 

“You’re sure of yourself.”

 

“Years of experience.”

 

She laughed out loud this time.

 

“Bring it on, then.”

 

She turned to leave the bathroom but stopped in the doorway.

 

“John?” She called without turning.

 

“Yes?”

 

“After you feed me, you can tell me about your son. I’ll see what I can do to help.”

 

 

 

*          *          *

 

John kept staring at Sarah’s naked feet. She was sitting on the small sofa, legs curled under her and a large cup of tea held between her hands.

 

She never once looked up, didn’t turn her gaze away from the dark liquid.

 

“That’s all I know. Whatever is possessing Sam, I can’t exorcise until I know its name. And no one seems to know what’s going on.”

 

She put the cup away, her movements slow and precise. John knew something was up.

 

Finally, she looked up at him. Her amber eyes were dark, almost brown now. Her face was pale and drawn. She looked older somehow. Much, much, older.

 

“Your son is not possessed. If what you’re you describe is true, the weapon and his face, then what you are talking about is impossible.”

 

“I have been hunting supernatural things for over twenty years. I know what possession looks like.” He insisted.

 

“John.” She warned him gently. “I know you believe it. But what you are describing...” She swallowed. “I know that weapon. I know all of them. They weren’t created to possess people, but to help them fight evil.”

 

“What do you mean ‘all of them’? There are more? What exactly do you know Sarah?”

 

She licked her lips and something sad flickered through her face.

 

“Lifetimes ago... I was in love. I remember that. I also remember an echo of a terrible pain. He must have been killed or something drastic like that. I don’t remember details and I don’t want to remember.”

 

“The man I remind you of.” Murmured John and she nodded.

 

“He was a warrior too. I can’t remember because I know what the grief I had felt back then pushed me to do. I am too powerful to risk loosing control like that again.”

 

She fell silent and John waited, having a bad feeling about this conversation.

 

“I don’t know how. But I changed some weapons. Created them in a way… I gave them power. And will. Those pieces of metal became, what was later called, Soul Weapons. They aren’t good or evil in their nature. It’s just power. How it’s used depends on the one that is wielding it. On his soul.

 

The weapon worked as an amplifier of sorts. It makes the wielder faster, stronger, more resistant to pain and disease. It lends him its power. They might change the character a bit. Make the wielder a little harder, a tad more aggressive... just stronger I think. But it won’t, it can’t, do more. It can’t fundamentally change the wielder. It was designed to serve the soul. Nothing more. It’s not the mind that controls it. It’s the soul. Never anything more. The other thing is that the marks should only be visible during a fight with something supernatural. You told me the lines on his face are visible almost all the time. That shouldn’t be possible either.”

 

“So what are you telling me here? That this thing... is Sam? That, I will never believe. I know my son!” Stated John adamantly, a little angry. What she told him... He knew she was powerful but he couldn’t imagine her creating something that had a <i> _will </i>_ of its own.

 

“Those Soul Weapons. What are they capable of?”

 

She smiled a strangely wistful smile.

 

“Ever the warrior. They can kill supernatural being. Not send back to hell. Kill. Destroy them completely. In a simplistic way, they are an echo of my power, a copy of me.”

 

“Can they be used to kill humans?”

 

She gave him a strange look.

 

“Of course. They are weapons. How the wielder decides to use it is only his decision. Basically the soul controls the weapon. Always. Not the mind. It’s not something that can change in time. One either can or can not wield it.”

 

“But the weapon controls my son. Not the other way around,” Insisted John.

 

“Then there’s something wrong with your son’s soul.”

 

The words echoed in the suddenly silent room like a scream.

 

“You trying to tell me my son doesn’t have a soul?” John’s voice dropped, low and dangerous. He might have lost contact with Sam, failed him, but he would protect him no matter what. He knew soulless people and Sammy wasn’t one of them.

 

“Relax, John. I’m not insinuating anything bad. Just that sometimes, when we love too hard, we can give our soul away. I have seen it happen a few times.”

 

John exhaled loudly trying to control his emotions. He never told her about Sam’s feelings for Dean or the... relationship they shared now. He knew he was too emotional. She wasn’t an enemy; she offered to help and he needed to listen to her. Really listen and hear what she had to say.

 

“Hypothetically speaking, if my son doesn’t... have a soul, what would happen once he touched the weapon?”

 

“First the weapon has to accept him. There are protective measures so no killing psychopath can use it. Once he is accepted... well. It’s only a speculation on my part because I haven’t actually seen it before but, I guess he would become the Weapon.”

 

“What?”

 

“Weapon, a force that would need somebody or something to control it. Since the weapons choose their owners than I guess the pendant you mentioned is the thing that’s controlling him now.”

 

“Not completely.” John murmured.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

John hesitated. It felt strange to talk about his family like that. To her.

 

“The owner of the pendant, the man that started this all, gave Sam an explicit order, a few times, to kill Dean. My older son.”

 

“He refused?” Asked Sarah.

 

“Not only. He killed the man’s goons and even went for him, but the pendant stopped him.”

 

Sarah took the tea, cold by now, and sipped.

 

“Is there something about your sons that you’re not telling me?”

 

“What makes you say that?” He asked for arguments sake because, hell, he was hiding something. A shameful secret he didn’t want to admit aloud. He was a father. How the hell was he supposed to talk about his son’s incestuous relationship? Especially when one of them was possessed and other desperate to save him no matter what?

 

“Because it seems to me that Sam is protecting Dean, pushing the limits of the spell, which must be incredibly painful for him. If he is the weapon, then it must be Dean he gave his soul to. But Dean is his brother. Why would he do this? Unless there’s something you’re not telling me.”

 

John gritted his teeth, defeated by her logic. And told her. Told her about the past, his choice to drive one son away to protect the other. Told her about Dean’s misguided reasons to start sleeping with Sam, and finally about the scene in his hotel room.

 

She looked at him for a very long moment. He couldn’t read her.

 

“I’m sorry it hurt you this much.” She said gently.

 

“You don’t find it sick? Repulsive?”

 

She smiled at him then. Gentle. A little patronizing.

 

“They are both adults. They are not hurting anyone. It’s different, not entirely healthy but it’s love. Of all the people, you should understand it. After all, you sacrificed your whole life for vengeance, for the love that you lost.”

 

Yeah. That shut him up real good. There wasn’t anything more he could say.

 

“So, if Dean manages to break the chain...”

 

“And survive.” Sarah cut in.

 

“And survive. Then he’ll automatically become the… Wielder?”

 

She shook her head.

 

“I don’t know. Usually the bond starts when the wielder touches the weapon for the first time. In this case... I just don’t know.”

 

“Great. So, Dean might be risking his life for nothing?” John growled, more scared than angry.

 

“No. I do think Dean is the one. But I don’t know how to create the necessary bond. Once it’s created both will be themselves again. Until then everything is out of balance.”

 

“So what? Dean frees Sam and he becomes a loose cannon?” That perspective wasn’t really much better.

 

“I can help with this. I think that, relying on pure instinct, they should start the bond if they have enough time. Until then.” She hesitated for a moment. “I can ask the weapon to sleep. It’s only a simplification but the powers would hibernate for a while, giving them time to bond. Normally the connection is between an object and a human. This time it’ll be between two people. And you know how hard human relations can be.”

 

“I’m sensing a but in there.”

 

“This ‘sleep’, hibernation state is also unnatural. Since the weapons cause some physical changes, the strength and speed, stopping it suddenly would make Sam ill. Feverish maybe, weaker in different ways.”

 

“Will it be dangerous for him?”

 

She shook her head.

 

“No, of course not. But it’s only a temporary resolution. Sam might get better or not but, in the end, the weapon awakens again. There’s nothing you can do about it.”

 

John pulled at his hair roughly, scratching his scalp and trying to think of some other way.

 

“Can’t you... I don’t know. Destroy it?”

 

This time it was her eyes that flashed with something hot and fierce.

 

“When I created them I was confused with grief and anger. When I first met one of my creations I realized they were conscious.” She took a deep breath. “They remember me, John. They know I gave them life. And they call me mother. I can’t hurt them. And I won’t let anybody else, either.” She was not kidding.

 

“It was only a suggestion.”

 

“It was a bad one.” She snapped.

 

John raised his hand in gesture of surrender.

 

“Message taken.” He assured.

 

“So, what are you going to do?”

 

“I’m going to call Dean. There’s a lot he needs to know.”

 

 

*          *          *

 

Dean felt tired, pleasantly exhausted. The day was warm and lazy. It was rare for Dean to just lie in bed, having nothing to do, just waiting.

 

It was boring.

 

Daytime television sucked big time. He was still sore from the night before and after the last time he lost the will to investigate Sam. He made do with the knowledge that Sam would come back to him.

 

Annoyed, he turned the TV off and turned on his side, pressing his cheek into the cool sheet.

 

He would at least catch up on his sleep.

 

*          *          *

 

The dream was warm and hazy, like they always were. It had no logic, no timeline but that, also, wasn’t a problem.

 

He dreamt of a bar, playing pool; which was funny, he realized, hustling even in his dreams.

 

Then he was somewhere soft and dark. He could feel soft, warm skin under his hands. Full breasts pressed tightly to his chest and silky thighs framing him. The wet heat of her held him in a powerful, exciting grip.

 

He grunted something like “God” and “Tight” and leaned down to kiss that faceless, dream woman.

 

She turned away, her lips cold and unresponsive.

 

“Dean.”

 

He knew that voice.

 

Dean jerked back, rolling away from the welcoming heat of the body but it was too late. He already saw her face. Saw the pale skin, the soft, pink lips. The small nose and eyes, impossibly wide and dark.

 

Jessica.

 

“Why do you keep doing this to me?!” He demanded angry and scared. Ashamed somehow. She was something that belonged to Sam. Not him.

 

“Look.” Her voice again, ringing in his head clear as a bell.

 

He felt her touch his forehead, her fingers cold and gentle. And it all started again.

<i>

_“I love you, Dean. Tell Dad... tell Dad that I forgave him a long time ago. He was wrong, but I understand.”_

_Closing his eyes, cutting himself off from Dean, Sam reached into the chest and withdrew a strange, yet beautiful blade. It was curved, elegant, reminding Dean of a claw and looked positively deadly. For a few moments nothing happened and Dean started to think that it was all a huge fucking mistake, when suddenly Sam screamed. Lightning after lightning burst out of the deadly looking weapon, striking the floor, ceiling, walls with earsplitting noise, filling the room with the sharp scent of ozone. The strands of electricity crawled over Sam’s body, forcing him to his knees, still screaming in pain and terror._

_Dean didn’t realize he was screaming with him and he watched as the lightning seemed to sink into his brother’s body. He listened with mounting terror and disbelief as his brother screamed with everything inside him. Dean watched his tendons stand out and the muscles of his arm ripple. He didn’t realize his cheeks were wet with tears, just like Sam’s were_

_She was standing there too; he could see her from the corner of his eye. Dressed in white, her hair a soft curtain that covered her naked shoulders._

_The scene froze, stilled as if somebody pressed pause. The last of the lightning bolts were still arching in the still air, Sam’s face frozen, contorted in pain and fear, his mouth open in a soundless scream. In his hand, he still gripped the cursed blade._

_Dean’s face was wet from tears, his throat sore from screaming and his ribs hurt like a bitch. The cold, hard floor dug into his knees, scrapped his palms bloody. But all he could see, all he could feel, was the terror on his brother face._

_“What the Hell do you want?” He asked Jessica._

_She turned towards him, her face soft and calm like she wasn’t there. Wasn’t really. He kept forgetting she wasn’t a person any more. She was a ghost, a shadow of her old self. She didn’t feel like she used to._

_“Why are you doing this to me?” He asked brokenly, unable to look away, unable to stand the sight of his little brother in pain. Knowing what that scene led to. Knowing that it was the last time he saw his real brother._

_God, he missed him so much._

_She never answered him, didn’t even look at him. Just went, softly and silently to Sam’s side. She stood over him. Out of place. Out of time. For a moment she just stared at him, her face soft and sad, the echo of her feelings shining through. Finally, she turned to Dean._

_“Listen.” Her lips didn’t move but her voice rang clear in his ears. “Look.”_

_She knelt beside Sam and her hand reached down, pale and small, closing over Sam’s long one. Her fingers curled over his and nearly touched the blade he was holding so tightly, the knife that started it all._

Dean jerked awake, his throat still painful and the echo of pain his ribs. He was confused, his eyes gritty and swollen and it took him a moment to realize where he was and what was happening.

 

Another nightmare.

 

His phone, ringing at him insistently.

 

He flopped down again, shamed and annoyed, baffled and scared at the same time. He hated remembering that moment, that fucking moment when all went to hell and he lost Sam. It felt like somebody was ripping his heart out. Every time.

 

He felt bad, uncomfortable with Jess appearing in his dreams. When he... fucked her.

 

Still, unable to understand just what she wanted from him, he rolled to the side and grabbed his phone. It was probably Dad. That was a priority now. The rest he would deal with later.

 

 

 

*          *          *

 

 

“You keep distance.” He blurted out. John used to think that he was way past the age where he blurted out anything. It seemed he was wrong.

 

She looked at him with those changing, mysterious amber eyes.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“You seem open and friendly, but you give the impression that you’re untouchable. You always keep just that little bit out of touching rage.” He stopped playing with his cup, drank the rest of his coffee and put it down on the small, cluttered table near the sofa she was still sitting on. Her bare feet were curled under her, hidden under the long, gray skirt.

 

She didn’t answer him. Didn’t say a word. She just stared at him with those mysterious eyes.

 

“Were you hurt?” He asked gently, remembering, understanding only now the ways she reacted to him the night before. The reluctance. The way she was easy to start even if she knew he was touching touch her.

 

There was a honest surprise on her face.

 

“No. Of course not. I was born with my powers. I bring them from life to life. Anyone who even tried to hurt me, would be dead in an instant. There was never anything wrong with my survival instinct.”

 

John smiled, but it was a sad smile. There were different kinds of hurts. Different wounds. Some healed and scarred. Some festered and took years upon years to stop bleeding. Some never stopped. She either didn’t understand him or didn’t want to understand.

 

He moved forwards, his hand reaching to her face.

 

Even then, he was the way she tensed, the barely visible flinch. She wasn’t used to being touched. And that seemed sad, somehow.

 

She looked up at him, her eyes warmer now. Soft. She wasn’t crowded, didn’t feel threatened by him towering over her, standing while she was sitting, vulnerable. Smelling of tea and something else, something female.

 

His fingers skimmed her soft cheek, enjoying the feel of smooth skin without any make up and over the shell of her ear. Just a whisper of touch.

 

Her eyes darkened, the pupils dilated.

 

She moved, sitting up, looking him straight in the eye.

 

“Do you have to go?” She asked gently.

 

He only shook his head. All he needed to do now was wait on Dean to contact him.

 

“Then stay.” She sat mere inches from him, her face so close to his stomach he could almost feel the heat of her body through his shirt.

 

He stared down at her, his fingers fining their way into the long, soft hair.

 

“Sarah...” There were so many things he wanted, needed to tell her. That it was a bad idea, that it couldn’t, wouldn’t last. That she was too young and he was too old. That there were so many, too many secrets they kept.

 

But she smiled at him. Small and gentle. Soothing somehow and she rose from the sofa, her body touching his. Her hand slid over his arm towards his hair, the fingers tangling there. Her touch soft but sure. There was strength in her, power, will, something he respected.

 

“Shh...” She whispered on a soft exhale, her lips just barely touching his. Not a kiss. Just an invitation. A promise.

 

“Just feel John. Just feel. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

 

He closed his eyes, surrendering to her in a way he hasn’t in a long, long while...

 

 

*          *          *

 

Dean flexed his hand, digging his fingers into the smooth, naked chest below him.

 

He could feel the heat and the firmness of his brother’s body. Could smell his musky scent.

 

Short on breath, almost lightheaded from exhaustion and pleasure, Dean lowered his head. A drop of sweat rolled slowly from his forehead onto his nose and then fell on Sam’s dark, swollen lips.

 

Dean watched as Sam parted his lips, watched the pink, wet tongue dart out and lick the drop away.

 

Tempted, Dean lowered his head even more, until his lips touched Sam’s. Kissed him, trying to find at least a trace of his own taste in his brother’s mouth.

 

He could feel Sam’s insanely long arms come around him and pull him closer, forcing their bodies to meet, press together.

 

Dean hissed, spreading his legs a bit more to accommodate the new position. The slight burn in his thighs was an almost welcome distraction. The new position made his tender cock rub against Sam’s hard stomach. It was oversensitive, soft and swollen a little from the friction it received tonight. It hurt but it wasn’t enough.

 

This time it was a moan that left Dean’s throat as Sam shifted again, one hand cradling the back of his head the other scratching none too gently on Dean’s back as Sam forced their bodies even closer together.

 

“Jesus, Sam.” Dean husked, his voice as sore and tired as his body. But it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that he was sore and exhausted, it didn’t matter that their bodies were slick with sweat and come. Whatever Sam did, it was always too much, not enough. It made him feel on fire, burning on he edge of insanity. He was like an addict craving the next fix.

 

He twisted in Sam’s grip, one hand sliding under the pillow Sam’s head was lying on. Dean could see, from the corner of his eye the thin line of his leather bracelet and wondered if it was its fault. If all he felt was caused by the spell. He didn’t know what to think any more. Every time, every day Sam came to him, every night they spent together, Dean just wanted him more.  Needed him more.

 

His breath hitched, as their lips met in a barely there kiss. They were both panting, the scent of sex heavy in the air. Dean moved, the rhythm slow and sexy as he rubbed their oversensitive bodies together finding unexpected pleasure in balancing on the edge between pleasure and pain.

 

His other hand found its way to the other side of Sam’s head, taking at least some of his weight, letting him shift astride his brother. He rose from the kiss to look at the oddly unfamiliar face. The sharp cheekbones and the high forehead was so painfully familiar to him but the flat, black eyes and the sharp lines of black over his cheeks were alien, painfully strange on his brother face. He stared into those black eyes trying to see his brother there. Trying to see Sammy there. He felt something heavy and sick twist in his chest again.

 

“Sam.” He whispered brokenly, wanting to scream “I love you” and “please, forgive me” and just, “please, still be there Sammy.”

 

His hand felt the slick coolness, the hard lines and sharp edges.

 

Dean leaned down once more, fusing their lips together, forcing his tongue in, wanting to taste his brother for the last time, wanting to reassure himself that there was a reason for this.

 

His hand tightened under the pillow.

 

“Sammy.” His lips moved so close to Sam’s they grazed each other. Like a kiss. Like a farewell.

 

It was the first time he called his brother ‘Sammy’ since it all started but the man beneath him didn’t get it. Didn’t understand the prayer the word really was until it was too late.

 

His lips still pressed tightly to his brother’s, Dean pulled the silver dagger from underneath the pillow and in one clean, sure motion pressed it under the thin, silver chain and cut.

 

The reaction was instantaneous.

 

Sam’s body froze under him for a second and then his eyes changed. Still black and flat, now they seemed even more alien, all emotion sucked right out of it. Sam’s face went slack and a sudden blast of pure force threw Dean off him.

 

He hit the opposite wall with enough force to knock his breath out of him. His chest hurt with a thousandth sharp, white-hot pins and he wondered, briefly, if he some of his ribs had broken.

 

Dean slowly slid to the ground, his legs giving out from under him. His bare ass hit the cold floor and it roused him enough from his stupor to look up at Sam. His brother, gloriously naked, stood beside the bed. His smooth, hairless, chiseled chest heaved. His cock was still half hard and jutting out from the patch of pubic hair. His face was slack, no emotion at all.

 

His hands were loose at his sides.

 

And Dean knew that he had somehow failed because the damn pendant was still around his neck and damn, but his brother was going to kill him. He just wished Sam didn’t ever remember it. For his sake.

 

Because when it came to the most important test, Dean failed.

 

His vision swimming, he stared at the glorious, dangerous and naked man slowly coming towards him. Sam’s body was strong, sculpted, dressed in shadows and sharp planes of flesh he was dark and dangerous like a weapon.

 

Like the knife that slowly appeared in his right hand. First a shadow, then a half translucent form and finally as hard, gleaming steel, the handle gripped tightly in his hand.

 

His face was pale and long, the black tear tracks cutting through it like wounds. His hair, damp and shaggy fell onto his face, obscuring his eyes. It was good though. Dean didn’t want to see the dead, black eyes. Not now. Not ever again.

 

He opened his mouth to scream as the same force that slammed him into a wall now picked him up, harshly. The air was squeezed from his lungs as he was picked up and lifted, stretched until something in him cried with pain.

 

Ever so slowly. So calmly. Sam approached him and lifted the hand that was holding the knife mid chest. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t hesitate. Just pulled the arm back.

 

Dean could only stare, in horror at the approaching arm. The blow wasn’t really fast nor unexpected. But Dean’s body was weak, beaten and held back by something he just couldn’t fight.

 

He stared at the shiny edge of the blade, at the jagged tear in space it was making as it fell silently towards him.

 

Something light and silver caught his attention. From a corner of his eye he saw a movement. In the split second, or the hour it took, he saw and understood. Felt the fucking irony of it.

 

Because when the knife was falling, the chain finally gave under the weight of the pendant, or maybe the spell let go because the silver finally fell to the floor.

 

The last thing Dean heard was the tiny, gentle clatter of the delicate chain hitting the dirty floor.

 

Then there was nothing but blackness.

 

 

TBC


	13. Chapter 13

It was the phone ringing that woke him. 

John stumbled out the bed, for the second time that day and tried to find his cell buried under the haphazardly thrown clothes. Finally, he found it under Sarah’s skirt.

It was Dean.

“Yeah?” He answered the phone, figuring it was Dean calling with some news. But there was only silence on the other side of the line.

“Dean?” He asked, concerned.

There was no answer. Only that dead, disturbing silence. John didn’t like it. Didn’t like it at all. It might have been only some connection problems but his gut twisted and something heavy and cold settled low in his stomach. His instinct was telling him trouble. 

“Son? Are you there?”

Still no answer. No sounds whatsoever. Not even breathing or static. 

“John?” Sarah murmured from the bed, sitting up half asleep and concerned. “Something’s happened?”

John ignored her for a moment. He disconnected the call and tried Dean’s number. After a moment the connection was established and the signal ringed. He waited and waited, but no one answered. With a muffled curse John threw the cell on the bed and started looking for his clothes. He had to find Dean.

“John?” Sarah sounded much more awake now and worried.

He looked up at her. She had the covers around her, her hair loose and in a bigger mass than when she woke up for the first ime. There was an already darkening bruise on her right arm and something that looked suspiciously like a hickey on her neck. Her lips looked soft, dark, still swollen a bit. She had that sexy, loose look that just screamed sex.

She was so different than the other women he usually found attractive. She wasn’t fit. Wasn’t trim. Had more than a few additional pounds on her. She also had the oldest eyes he had ever seen. She was young, a little shy and obviously not really experienced with men. But she spoke to something deep within him. Something both primal and complicated. He felt with her. And that wasn’t something he never expected again. He wasn’t sure he wanted to feel anything for anyone anymore.

“It’s Dean. Something’s wrong. I have to find him.” He spoke sharply, starting to dress already.

“Do you know where he is?” She asked calmly.

John paused at the logic in her question. No. He did not know where his son was.  
“I’ll check the hotel first. He's been spending most of his time there lately.” He didn’t add that he was waiting for Sam. It still shamed him, hurt him that his sons were in such... relationship. No matter the reasons.

“I’ll go with you.” She said briskly jumping out of bed and heading for the closet to find some clothes.

He opened his mouth to protest. She was a woman, she was his lover however stupid that was, and she wasn’t family.

“Maybe I’ll meet Sam.” She added, not even looking at him. But John could bet she knew what he was going to say anyway.

There wasn’t anything he could say. After all that was why he found her. To ask for help with Sam.

“Hurry.” He just ordered, briskly pulling on his clothes.

She didn’t need to be told twice.

* * *

Nathaniel Belmonde entered his office. It was dark, the blinds closed and all the lights were out. But he knew his way around it. He knew each and every antique piece of furniture in it.

He was a rich, fifty something, sophisticated man. He couldn’t stop a smile of pure satisfaction from crossing his lips. He had people call him sir and all the best tables in the expensive restaurants, he had beautiful women fawn over him.

No one knew he was born as a street rat, his father a mean drunk that used to beat the shit out of him on a regular basis. He would have probably ended up like his father. Nothing but human garbage. But he met a witch somewhere along the way and he was smart enough to learn that there was power, real power in black magic. 

Over fifty years later he was rich and powerful, the witch long dead. It didn’t bother him that it was him who ended her life, who spilled her blood when she objected to some of his plans. She was just a means to an end. Stupid bitch, she trusted him. That was her only mistake.

And now, now he had the most powerful weapon ever. 

He couldn’t stop a small chuckle from escaping. Yes. He was fucking brilliant. It was a stroke of genius to use the Soul Weapon like he did. He was the only one to ever try to twist it’s power, to suit it to his needs.

He wondered if John Winchester even remembered him. He doubted it. He was probably just a face. One of the many people he passed in his quest. But he always remembered him. Well, his sons, really. 

Five years ago Nathaniel was a witness to John exterminating a poltergeist. That wasn’t anything new or surprising for him. But the Winchester boys were. A mystery. Beautiful mystery.

The older one was nineteen and the younger one fifteen. He remembered mostly how incredibly beautiful, how sexy the older one was. A freaking walking sin. But the younger one. Sam. Nathaniel has never seen this kind of fire in somebody’s eyes. This devotion, this fierce, unholy love. In the brief moment his and young Sam’s eyes met he was sure, damn sure that this kid was twisted, wrong on so many levels... totally in love with his older brother.

Then, he didn’t think much of it. The Winchesters left and he all but forgot the event. Until two years later, when a private collector offered two of the Soul Weapons for sale. He couldn’t afford both, even with his fortune. But he managed to buy one. It was enough.

He knew the purpose of the weapons and knew he had to somehow overcome the protections. To make it serve him.

It took a year to come up with a plan. It took eight people to learn that the Weapons were smart. That they had will. That they wouldn’t accept any of his people. Somehow they sensed that those people were influenced, controlled by Nathaniel.

It took a lot of money, a lot of research to come up with the idea or somebody that gave his soul away. And at that moment he thought of the little boy, barely fifteen, that watched his older brother with fiery eyes. Yes. That would probably be the ideal candidate.

It took another two years to create a spell powerful enough to keep even the Weapon in check. Then the only thing left was to find Samuel Winchester. It wasn’t easy, but he managed. 

He set up a trap, a plan perfectly planned and executed. Sam was more, so much more than he expected. He didn’t know that Sam had telekinetic powers. The Weapon didn’t give him that. It only amplified what he had. And the precognition ability. It was almost too good to be true. The way he moved, always knowing when or how the security cameras would move or when a security guard would come for a check. His additional training delivered by his father also didn’t hurt.

Within three weeks Nathaniel managed to destroy most of his opponents, political, economical or simply people he didn’t like. Sam was like a perfect killing machine. Invulnerable, untraceable and effective. Well. Almost.

Nathaniel has ordered Sam to kill his brother and father three times so far. He not only didn’t listen. He killed the men Nathaniel sent to finish the job. 

The man touched the pendant on his neck. Sam couldn’t attack him even though he wanted to. But it miffed him that Sam wouldn’t do what he was ordered. He couldn’t understand what it was that stopped him each and every time. Blood? Hell, he didn’t have any troubles finishing his old man just as soon as he was big enough.

Still. It didn’t matter. Sam was completing every other order he gave.

Nathaniel turned on the small desk lamp. It cast a circle of warm, golden glow in the dark room. He started a little when he realized he wasn‘t alone. 

In one of the wide, leather armchairs, silent like a grave, long and still, sat Sam. His eyes were black, flat and expressionless as always and the strange black lines crossed his cheeks like teardrops. Nathaniel got used to this, but the eerie silence, the complete and utter stillness Sam seemed to manage was creeping him out. He touched the silver necklace around his neck. He was in control here. He needed to remember it.

“Where the hell were you?” He snapped. “You didn’t kill him, did you? But guess what, you won’t be able to save him each and every time. Finally, somebody will slip through and get rid of that pesky family of yours.”

He moved behind his neck and pulled the top drawer out.

“Anyway, I’ve got another mark for you.” He threw a thick file on the desk. “Here are the names. I want not only the man dead. His family too.” Nathaniel left the desk and went to the antique table with a selection of finest alcohols and glasses. He poured himself some whiskey, added ice and took a sip of the expensive alcohol. “I want them not only dead, but bloody. I want them to suffer. A message of sorts.”

Nathaniel started to put the lid of the ice bucket but something silvery caught his eyes. Curious he looked inside. There was something, lying on the ice. 

Something silver.

He reached for it, more curious than anything.

When the weak light caught the silver chain and small pendant at the end, Nathaniel’s breath froze in his lungs.

He threw himself towards the door even before his mind understood all the implications. He didn’t make it more than three steps before something caught him by the throat and jerked. So hard he thought his neck was going to snap. He couldn’t breathe. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears, could see the tiny black spots in front of his eyes.

“Going somewhere?”

Samuel Winchester, as cool as ever slowly rose from the armchair, the long, black coat trailing after him like wings. His face was pale, the black lines stark against it.

He tried to scream, to call for help but his throat was closed completely. Not a sound, not even a gulp of air, could come through.

Slowly, as if having all the time in the world, Sam approached him. His head tilted to the right and his black gaze slid from his face to Nathaniel’s arm. 

He heard it before he felt it. The sickening crunch and grind of bones breaking. The pain, hot and nauseating, flooded him just an instant later. He didn’t even know what hurt, only that his whole body was burning with it.

He blacked out.

 

* * *

John arrived at the motel parking lot with a squeal of tires and Sarah completely calm beside him. She didn’t even gasp as he slid his truck parallel to the motel door number 12.

“That’s his room?” She asked as John jumped out of the truck.

“Yeah.”

“There’s one person inside. Alive. Not moving though. Probably unconscious.” She said as she scrambled out of the high step.

John paused and looked at her, surprised.

“What?” She asked a little surprised he didn’t understand. “It’s all about energy. I can feel it, see it. Sense it. Think about it.”

Right now he had no time but it was worth consideration. If she told the truth, it was next to impossible to surprise her.

He picked the lock in less than thirty seconds and pushed inside. He stopped so suddenly he felt Sarah bump into him from behind.

The room was a mess. The furniture was overturned, Dean’s bags and things were scattered around and in the middle of it all lay Dean. He was on his back, eyes closed, a small trickle of blood already dried ran from his nose. He was covered with the ugly, green quilt that came with the room. He was naked under the quilt.

“Dean!” John called frantically searching for pulse. He exhaled with relief when he found it. Strong and steady.

He pulled the covering down and hissed at the sight of already forming, heavy bruising on Dean’s ribs. His right wrist also looked bad, swollen already, the leather bracelet cutting into the puffy flesh. 

John opened his mouth to tell Sarah to call 911 but when he looked up from Dean, she was already dialing her phone. 

“Hold on son. I’ve got you.” He whispered stroking the spiky hair gently. He was afraid to touch or move Dean in any way, not sure how much damage he suffered. Right now he seemed to be breathing okay. No visible difficulty so John left him in the position he found Dean.

He looked around the demolished room and thought he already knew what happened. 

 

* * *

Clink

Clank

Clink, clank.

The tinny sound finally broke through the fog in his brain. Nathaniel struggled to open his eyes, to gain control over his body. But the darkness was pulling at him, the unbelievable pain suffocating any rational thought except fear and confusion.

Clink, clank.

Struggling, he managed to pry his eyes open. His whole body hurt, but his arms and legs were just points of fire.

He suffered greatly, but Nathaniel Belmonde wasn’t any kind of blue blooded wimp. He suffered his share of pain, was beaten into a broken and bloody pulp since he was two years old enough times to learn how to deal with pain.

Letting it wash over his body, trying not to focus on any particular source of hurt, he started to catalogue his situation. He was lying on the floor. He could feel it hard and cool under him, could feel the draft of cold air on his face. 

He turned his head to the right, the semi darkness of the room making it hard to focus at the beginning. But then he saw that his right arm was lying along side him, twisted into a shape that suggested at least a dozen breaks. It looked horrible too. Swollen and strangely shaped, fingers already blue. Slowly, not sure of the rest of injuries he turned left. His left arm was in the same condition, bones crushed into tiny pieces.  
He didn’t even try to move his legs. Judging from the pain radiating from them, they were in the same condition.

He was scared now. But not yet terrified. He didn’t really understand, yet, what it meant to have Sam without any control. He underestimated his connection, his need to protect his family. He misjudged the love Sam felt for John and Dean. He couldn’t understand something he never felt himself.

Clink, clank.

Finally he looked towards the source of sound. 

There he was. Dark and smooth, sprawled almost lazily in the posh leather chair. His long legs were stretched in front of him, feet planted firmly apart, knees bent slightly. One of his hands was resting against the black leather of the armrest, fingers long and pale, stark against the leather. His other hand was holding one of the expensive crystal glasses Nathaniel was so proud of. It was half full with amber liquid. The ice cubes inside clinked lightly against the crystal, when Samuel sent them spinning inside the glass with a gentle move of his wrist.

His hair was messy, covering his forehead and disguising his eyes. He looked so at ease, so frighteningly relaxed. Like he had all the time in the world.

As if sensing Nathaniel was looking at him, Sam turned to him. The black lines were still on his face and his eyes were as black as always. But they were different now. Not as blank, not flat like before. Only now did Nathaniel realize that there was fire in that blackness. Power. Rage. Hate.

“You know.” The younger man started, an almost dreamy quality to his voice. Soft and low and distant. He rose from the armchair. His long frame folding gracefully and rising with the eerie silence Nathaniel saw before. Sam lowered his head and looked at the older man. There was no pity, no satisfaction in his eyes. Nathaniel couldn’t say what there was, but it scared him. And there weren’t many things that could scare him.

“People who play with fire,” He raised the glass to his lips in a mock salute and drank all of the amber liquid in one long swallow, letting his throat work. Then he looked down at Nathaniel, his voice lower, scarier when he said: “Tend to get burned.”

He slowly, carefully put the glass on the table. Then just as slowly, as sure of the fact that he had all the time in the world, he started coming towards Nathaniel.

The man watched as in the previously empty hand appeared the deadly, curved blade. He opened his mouth to scream, to call for help but only a strange, animal like sound came from his throat. And pain. So much pain.

“Hmm. I was wondering when you would realize.” Sam said almost conversationally. He reached to the small table again and withdrew a small bundle from the ice bucket. It was wrapped into one of Nathaniel’s silk handkerchiefs. The white now turned to pink from the blood.

With increasing terror Nathaniel watched as the taller man unwrapped the bundle partially and then threw it on the floor near the lying man’s head. It landed with a wet plop. Feeling a sickening sensation in his belly Nathaniel watched at the silk fell away revealing a piece of flesh. A muscle. Slick and red with blood.

It actually took him a moment to realize just what he was seeing was a cut off tongue. His tongue. 

He opened his mouth to scream his terror out but only a spay of blood and a tiny wail came out. 

Sam crouched beside him, one arm resting on Nathaniel’s chest and the other, the one holding the knife, rested on Sam’s knees. Gleaming and deadly.

“Trying to scream is useless. You own blood will choke you. Your legs and arms are broken into pieces. I have cut your tongue out. It’s painful. It’s dangerous. But none of the injuries are imminently fatal. It will take long hours for you to die.” It should have been relieving to know he would die but those words, delivered in that smooth, low whisper, were the most horrible thing he ever heard.

“You tried to control me. You told me to kill for you. You tried to kill my family. Now it’s the time to pay for it, Nathaniel.” The words were almost gentle, no anger in them. Just promise. “Everything has a price. And now is the time to pay for it.”

While speaking, Sam unbuttoned Nathaniel’s shirt and slowly peeled the cloth away revealing the surprisingly trim, for his age, stomach.

Sam switched the knife to the hand closer to Nathaniel and leaned over him. The older man watched, with growing terror as the gleaming tip touched the vulnerable skin and pressed. He watched it sink an inch. His overwhelmed brain barely registered the small hurt.

“You are in too much of a shock to register this.” Sam informed him calmly as he cut a long line all the way to this other hipbone. Blood welled on the soft skin, the pain there but nothing compared to the agony coming from his limbs. “But don’t worry. You will feel what I do next.”

With horror like nothing he imagined, Nathaniel watched as Sam parted the edges of the wound and pressed his fingers inside.

“Don’t worry. You won’t bleed out. I made sure not to cut anything vital.” With that Samuel curled his fingers inside, rearranging Nathaniel’s insides and pulled.

Trying valiantly to scram, spitting blood and spit, crying like a newborn, Nathaniel wailed, screamed both in terror and pain as Sam took hold of his intestine and started pulling it out. Bit by bit through the cut he made earlier.

“Do you know that an average man can have from five, even up to eleven meters of intestines? And I am going to pull out every single inch you have.” He pulled, his hand bloody and sure, pulled the flesh away from Nathaniel’s body with a sickening slurping sound. “And I am going to make damn sure none of it is cut or broken in any way. We don’t want you dying too soon, do we?”

He didn’t know how long it took. Days, years, hours or maybe minutes. The only thing he was aware of was pain. Such horrible, terrible pain and terror. No escape. No mercy. No God to pray to. Just this endless sea of horror and pain. And Sam. Watching him with dead eyes and an eerie calm.

A blast of frigid cold water on his face roused him enough to open his eyes. The sun was raising over the city covering the room in a gentle, orange glow. He was weak, the pain driving almost every coherent thought out. Just this agony... pain.

Sam was standing above him, dark and cool, untouched by the mess around them, holding the empty ice bucket. The room smelled of blood and gore, of human excrement and some part of Nathaniel understood that he lost control over his body and soiled himself sometime during the night.

There wasn’t much blood. But all around him. Spilled on the floor like trash were his insides. Bloody snakes that leaked his life away. The agony he was in was impossible to describe. There wasn’t anything but pain. Every single cell of his body screaming with agony.

Sam put the bucket away carefully. His hands were clean. He must have washed sometime during the night.

The young man looked at him, the black lines slowly retracting into his eyes, leaving only smooth, white skin behind.

“You should die by sunset. If you are lucky.”

With that he simply left. Just opened the door and then closed them behind himself. Carefully. Quietly.

Nathaniel wanted to scream, to call for help, for mercy, for Sam to kill him but he was too weak already. All he could do was lay in his expensive office, in his own excrements, and suffer in silence.

There was no hope for him.

There was no one to come looking.

There was no God for him to pray. He forfeited that right a long, long time ago.

There was only pain.

Agony.

And long, long hours till death.

* * *

Sarah watched John. He didn’t see her. She stood hidden in the shadows. They separated some time ago. She needed to find the bathroom and she sensed John needed some time alone. He wasn’t used to people constantly being around. In many ways she was a stranger too.

He was a fiercely private man. He wouldn’t appreciate her being there when he felt so afraid. So useless. So weak. Maybe it was because he was so much older than her. Maybe because of his life, the tragedy he suffered. Or maybe he was just born this way. So she gave him breathing space. But she couldn’t keep away for too long. Many reasons for that. First and probably foremost was that she was worried. For him, for his family. John already managed to get under her skin. Made her care. Second reason: he would leave soon. In a way, by helping him, she was sabotaging this... thing... they had. As soon as Sam was free, was himself again, John would leave. To search for the Demon that killed his wife. In search for vengeance.

She wondered how long it would take him to understand that vengeance was always the wrong reason. Because after all was done and the enemy killed, what would be left? No friends. No home. No family too, probably. From what she heard in all those things John didn’t say to her she had a feeling Sam wasn’t interested in the family crusade. And if the Weapon/Wielder bond between Dean and Sam actually did happen then it could go either way. Sam might follow Dean or the other way around. Just because Dean was the Wielder didn’t mean he would have any kind of control over Sam. They would still be separate, independent men. 

She shivered. Sarah hated hospitals with a vengeance. She hated them because she could actually feel all of those dying people in there. Could sense their energy leaking away, fading. Could tell when somebody died. She hated that feeling, despised that knowledge.

John was sitting on the uncomfortable plastic chair, elbows on his knees and head supported by his hands. He looked tired. Worried.

She finally approached him.

“Hey,” She called softly. “Anything new?”

He grunted as he shifted, stretching muscles that were probably already fixed solid in the position.

“No. How long can the fucking tests last?”

She gave him the horrible coffee bought in the vending machine and he accepted it with genuine gratitude. She wondered how he could stand to drink it and still have most of his stomach in place.

“He wasn’t a priority. He’s probably waiting in line somewhere. There were no obviously life threatening injuries so they pushed him back.”

“I know, I know. I’m just tired of waiting.” He sighed and leaned back, letting his head rest on the wall. She watched his adam apple bob a few times as he swallowed and fought to keep his frustration down, hidden.

“Still. You should be happy.” She said gently.

His eyes snapped open. Ah. Temper. She raised her hands in a gesture of surrender.

“Don’t kill the messenger. I’m just saying that Dean most probably managed to break the chain. He actually survived breaking the spell binding Sam.”

“We don’t know what actually happened. It’s too soon to draw any conclusions. We have to wait until Dean wakes up and tells us what happened.” John snapped.

She resisted the urge to snap back. He had a reason to be upset after all. Instead, she just sat beside him on the uncomfortable chair and put her hand on his knee. They both waited.


	14. Chapter 14

“Mr. Connor?” A tiny, redhead slip of a woman asked, approaching John. His head snapped at hearing his false name. He recognized her as the doctor that took Dean for the tests.

 

“Yes?” He stood up, impatient to hear the news about Dean.

 

“Hi. I’m Dr. Kim Sandowal. I’m the doctor overseeing your son’s treatment.”

 

“Yes, yes I remember. Can we skip the pleasantries and cut to the chase? Please?”

 

The doctor opened her mouth, closed it and then tried again.

 

 “Of course. Your son doesn’t have any broken ribs, that’s good. But most of them are heavily bruised. And I mean heavily. Actually, the fact that your son has very well developed muscle tone might have saved him. The denser quality of muscle tissue absorbed much of the impact force. Dean has a badly sprained right wrist and possible concussion. The nature of the... accident is still unclear. You said he was found in his motel room but the nature of the injuries is consistent, rather with a fall.”

 

 _Or being slammed into a wall_ thought John but kept his mouth shut.

 

The doctor shifted, becoming a little uncomfortable.

 

“Because he was found naked, we performed some routine tests to make sure your son didn’t have any hidden injuries and to exclude...” She hesitated a little at the next word “Rape. There are signs that your son was sexually active recently but there’s nothing that would suggest it wasn’t consensual. No bruising, nor tearing.”

 

“I understand. When can I take him home?”

 

“We need to keep him here at least twenty four hours. We need to make sure there aren’t any hidden injuries and there is always the concussion we have to worry about.”

 

John could feel Sarah standing beside him, quiet and calm. He was thankful for her silent support. It helped. Not being alone.

 

“Thank you. Can I see him now?”

 

The doctor obviously swallowed some choice words and nodded.

 

“Yes. Just ask the nurse to show you the room.”

 

 

*        *        *

 

Dean was asleep. He looked pale and somehow vulnerable lying so motionlessly among the crisply white sheets. White was never his color.

 

His ribs were taped and his right hand bandaged tightly. The blood was cleared from his face. He didn’t look that bad besides the paleness and stillness.

 

“He hates being sedated.” John said more to himself than to Sarah. “It always makes him feel fuzzy and tired afterwards.”

 

“He doesn’t seem like the type to just lay here and rest.” Sarah remarked watching John sit down beside Dean.

 

John smiled. Slow and sweet.

 

“Yeah. When he was little he was always running here and there. Never still. Putting him to bed was pure horror.” John’s voice faded away as he stared at his eldest son.

 

“What did you do, Dean?”

 

Sarah watched him and wondered how John couldn’t sense that his other son was there too? She still found it difficult to remember that not everyone had senses like her.

 

She went to the window and looked down on the busy street. She didn’t really see him. He was just a shadowed figure in the darkest corner of the street, just beyond the reach of any kind of light.

 

“You should go home, John.” She said gently, her eyes still focused on the figure three stories below.

 

“I’m going to stay with him. You should go though…”

 

“John.” She said with more insistence now. Her voice changed enough for him to look at her, confusion and a little bit of temper peeking through the concern. “Go. Home.”

 

She turned away from him and looked down into the shadows.

 

“What do you…” John stopped and really looked at her. At her hand flat against the cool glass, at her eyes focused on a spot he couldn’t see. “He’s here.”

 

“Yes.” Was the simple answer from her.

 

“I shoul…” John started but this time she cut in forcefully.

 

“You should go.”

 

John paused, not really used to somebody giving him orders.

 

“Look Sarah, I appreciate you trying to help but he is my son and it’s me that should take care of the problem...”

 

She looked at him, her eyes fierce and eerily light, like an amber fire.

 

“Right now Sam is not your son. If anything he belongs more to me than to you right now. Besides what will you do when he comes? You try to fight him, he’ll kill you.” She turned away from the window and looked him straight in the eye “Or maybe you are going to reason with him?” She snorted. “Forgive me but you don’t strike me as the erudite type.”

 

“Sarah.” He warned her, his voice low and threatening.

 

But she wasn’t one to be easily scared. She felt jittery and buzzed, the powerful energy of her Weapon already so close to her was awakening something harsh and aggressive inside her. Something primal. Something that was created with only one purpose. To kill. To fight. To destroy.

 

“You can’t do anything right now. You did your best, bringing me here. Now stop being a liability and go.”

John gritted his teeth, the muscle in his jaw jumping wildly.

 

“Fine.” He grounded between clenched teeth and turned on his heel. He didn’t slam the door probably because they were in a hospital.

 

She watched the angry line of his back as he left, saw the pride, the anger in him and cursed her own temper. She wasn’t perfect, damn it. She had her moods too. So she snapped annoyed that he wouldn’t see the logic in her proposal.

 

There was a sense of fear she was loathe to address. The fear that he wouldn’t call, wouldn’t come to her any more. She already promised to help. He didn’t need to be around any more. She wondered if it would mean that he would give up. Just like that. One spat and he was off. She hoped not. It would mean he was a lesser man than she thought.

 

Sarah looked out the window, at the sea of moving cars. It was time for her to go. Sam was still out there. Somewhere. He was watching. Waiting. Probably wanting to see his brother. And she was stopping him.

 

With a last glance at the sleeping man she turned to leave, idly wondering about the trace of strange energy, an echo, she still could see on his right wrist under the bandages. Something once was there, even gone it still left a faint imprint.

 

Just as she was reaching for the door knob, she heard a faint moan coming from the sleeping man. Intrigued, she looked back over her shoulder at Dean.

 

He was still lying in the strange half on his side, half on stomach position he rolled into, trying to probably ease the strain on his heavily bruised back. He seemed sleeping, but as she looked she could see his eyelids fluttering. The dim, bad hospital lighting didn’t do him justice making him look pale and greenish, his bruises even more prominent. He seemed so out of place here, in the hospital. She could sense his strong, vivacious life force, the zest for life that one could see in the lines of his body. He was a very, very good looking man. Beautifully built. He pushed all her buttons, not much different than his father. The wonder of DNA she thought as she approached him, wondering if he would awake or slip back into sleep.

 

As she watched his lids fluttered once more and opened. His eyes were pale now, looking almost blue, reflecting the pale blue hospital gown, but they were hazel. A warm, luminescent hazel that had a tendency to reflect the color of his clothes.

 

His face, although handsome and definitely eye catching, didn’t look familiar. But his eyes... there was just something about them...

 

He moved his lips, still too much under the spell of sleep and drugs in his system to surface completely. She guessed his question anyway.

 

“I’m Sarah. Your father’s friend.” There was a flash of recognition in his still hazy eyes. “You are in the hospital. You are bruised, your right wrist is sprained badly but there aren’t any serious injuries.” She could see he had problems with keeping awake. She looked into his eyes and felt her hands start to shake. It was ridiculous. Her hands never shook.

 

There was just something about his eyes...

 

“Did you break the chain?” She could see him drifting away again and pressed harder. “Did you break the spell, Dean?”

 

He blinked at her, obviously already halfway to sleep, not really understanding the question. However, he did nod slightly, the angle of his face changed, the sparse light in the room somehow finding his eyes and catching, spilling shards of green and blue and brown. Her vision swam and she felt the bile rising to her throat. She was sick, her skin clammy.

 

Sarah was running out of the room, away from the single hospital bed and the man on it before she even realized what was going on. All she could feel was the sickness in her stomach, the way her guts twisted and all she could see was that single moment the light caught and spilled all those colors all over her vision. Somehow she stumbled into the bathroom not really caring if it was man’s or a woman’s one. She stumbled into the stall, her cheeks already wet with tears she didn’t even realize she was spilling and sank to her knees hugging the porcelain bowl and dry heaving. She felt like she was going to vomit, spill all her insides out but nothing came besides the half choked hiccups and dry heaving. All she could think of was the same sentence over and over again, becoming a mantra, a wall to hide behind. A lie that wants, needs desperately to become truth.

 

“I don’t remember. I don’t remember. I don’t remember.” She sank further to the floor, curling into a fetal ball on the floor, not caring if it was dirty, not seeing or hearing anything beyond the mantra in her mind, on her lips. “I don’t remember. I don’t remember. I don’t remember. Oh God, oh Jesus, please, don’t let me remember.”

 

_Blue and green, sunlight catching the flecks of color in his eyes._

 

“I don’t remember. I don’t remember.”

 

_A hand in her hair, tightening gently, pulling he head slowly to the side._

 

“I don’t remember. I don’t remember. I don’t remember. I don’t remember.”

 

 _Blue and green, touch warm and so achingly familiar on her skin_. __

“I don’t remember.” She sobbed pitifully

 

 _Light blinding her, only the broad shouldered silhouette in front of her. I’ll be back. Promise_. __

She curled even more tightly into herself, refusing to remember, refusing to be pulled into that pain again, running away from the hurt. She fisted her hands in her hair and pulled until the tears on her face were ones of pain, until all she could see were red and black spots in front of her eyes and she screamed. A mindless, horrible sound that cleared any other thought.

 

Just this pain.

 

 _It’s okay_. __

This anguish.

 

_Don’t worry. It’s nothing._

 

Just the scream.

 

_I’ll be back. Blue. Green. Brown all over her. Warmth slowly slipping away._

*        *        *

 

A nurse in street clothes, ready to go home felt a little queasy and decided to step into the bathroom before she left the hospital and headed home. She touched the knob and  her knees buckled. She felt something cold and tight close over her heart, a dull pain

that made her dizzy and weak. She slid gently to the floor, her eyes open and staring at the ceiling as she lay on the cold tile, unaware that her life was slowly seeping out of her.

 

*        *        *

 

A heart monitor attached to an older woman on a hospital bed started beeping it’s alarm as her heart rate skyrocketed and then started falling dangerously. Her eyes were open and staring, she felt weak and strangely dizzy.

 

Her daughter roused, surprised by the alarm, the heart monitor only a procedure.

 

“Mom?”

 

She touched her mother’s hand and the skin was cold and clammy.

 

“Nurse!” She called but no one answered, so she got up from the chair to go and look for  help when she felt a strange, dull pain in her heart. Her knees sagged and she hit the floor hard and fell face down. Her eyes were open and staring at the gray tile as her life slowly seeped away.

 

*        *        *

 

At the nurse station, the older nurse stared baffled at the board that showed which heart monitors in which rooms send alarm signals. One after another, the whole damn board was lit up.

 

“Anna!” She yelled into the general direction of the back room. “Come here!”

 

“I’m off!” Came the tired and irritated reply.

 

“Now! Something’s seriously wrong!”

 

Not waiting for Anna, she left the room and headed for the corridor. As soon as she rounded the corner she stopped, stunned. On the floor, lying on her back and staring numbly upwards was doctor Sandowal, her red hair fanned in a dull red pool over the gray tiles. Some feet over was Jeremy, the orderly slumped over his cart, obviously unconscious. Farther back she could see a few more people slumped along the walls or on the floor. All motionless, all pale, their eyes open and staring numbly ahead.

 

“Holy Mother of God!” She whispered and wanted to kneel next to the doctor, trying to make sure she was still alive but as she bent down she felt sudden dizziness enveloping her and then a cold, dull pain in her chest.

 

She slid to the floor next to the redhead doctor. Silently. Gently. She was weak, so weak she could only stare numbly ahead and she knew, she knew she was dying. The only sound around her the faint whine of heart monitors on the ward, all singing the same song.

 

*        *        *

 

Her eyes tightly closed, Sarah whined softly in the back of her throat. The memories like a dark, insistent pressure on her mind. Pushing. Clawing at her to let them in. Fighting and screaming, the memories already leaking pain and terror into her psyche.

 

Something changed though. Someone was there. Near.

 

She opened her eyes, blurry and stingy from the tears she shed and looked up at the dark figure standing above her. The light was behind them, only the broad silhouette visible to her. It was a man. A tall man dressed in a black coat. But she didn’t need to see his face to know who or what he was. She could sense him; the wave after wave of incredible strength, of power was washing over her, speaking to something deep and dark inside her.

 

“Mother.” He said in a low voice. It was dark and thick like molasses, it also held a ring of wonder in it, a feeling she heard before.

 

He was hers.

 

When he lowered himself onto one knee in one graceful, effortless move she knew what she would see. Black eyes, no irises nor whites, and two, thick black lines leaking down from his eyes in a dark parody of tears. His hair was shaggy, obscuring part of his face but to her he was beautiful. She looked into those black, dead eyes and saw everything. Saw her creation.

 

She made no move to stop him as he reached for her neck, his big hands encased in leather closed over her neck, the strong fingers searching out a certain spot with painful gentleness. She watched his face even when he pressed on her nerves, watched him calmly as darkness enveloped her, as her mind shut gently down.

 

*        *        *

 

         He carried her through the hospital corridor in silence. His black coat moving gently in time with his slow, measured steps. He walked slowly, softly past people sitting on the floor or leaning on the wall, catching their breaths, confused and afraid. He carried her, cradling her head to his shoulder, careful not to jar her. No one noticed him. No one stopped to ask what he was doing. No one looked into his face.

 

No one he passed knew how close to death they were today, no one in the hospital, no one in the city.

 

Her body was quiet and still in his arms.

 

The darkness outside swallowed them quickly, easily, readily. Shadows fell on them like old lovers, like the favorite blanket enveloping them with love and passion.

 

*        *        *

Sarah opened her eyes to the soft darkness cut with stripes of warm sunlight. She was laying in the middle of a huge, sinfully soft bed. The first thing she saw was the white ceiling with a single cracked line running through the middle. She felt the heavy, muzzy feeling that usually came after too much sleep.

 

The thin stripes of sunlight falling over the bed left trails of warmth on the silk covers. She moved her head, pressing her cheek into the cool silk of the pillow, relishing the luxurious sensation and the sleep that didn’t really release it’s hold on her.

 

Her head ached insistently when she moved, so she closed her eyes again. Grateful for the darkness and the care. Smelling the dark, heavy scent so unfamiliar to her. Smelling him on those pillows.

 

She had no idea where she was but it didn’t matter. Not at all.

 

She turned on her side and slowly opened her eyes. And smiled gently. He was all the things she would want him to be. So strong, so beautiful it made her heart ache. In a good way.

 

So perfect.

 

He was sitting in a lonely armchair, his knees just inches from the bed. He was dressed in black from head to toe. Black slacks and black turtleneck. His hair was shaggy and dark, falling over his forehead. He was tall, taller than she expected. His shoulders stretched the turtleneck nicely, letting a hint of his physical power seep through. But it was nothing compared to the waves of power she could feel coming from him. Like sea, endless and wild, the strength, the sheer power of him enveloped her in its terrifyingly gentle waves.

 

The dress style made him look older, much older and sharper than a 23 year old man should be. She wondered how much of Sam Winchester there was, and how much of the Weapon. Did they merge or was one of them dominating?

 

She watched the black lines on his pale face, watched the sharp angle of his jaw as he tilted his head to study her in return. She held no fear, even though he was so much more than any of her Soul Weapons ever were. John thought that the powers Sam exhibited came due to the Weapon. She would have to tell him, that no. Most of them were Sam’s. Were the gifts he was born with.

 

She also sensed his distress, sensed the restless way his energy kept shifting and fluttering, changing into something she’d never seen before.

 

He had no more idea what he was than she.

 

She moved her hand out from under the covers and stretched it out toward him in a silent invitation.

 

The Weapons had will and were conscious. But they weren’t human. Designed for them, they craved things they weren’t capable of.

 

Emotions.

 

Feelings.

 

They needed comfort yet couldn’t gain it themselves. It needed to be given. Provided.

 

She watched him, with a sense of awe and pride she never knew before. Watched as he uncurled his big figure from the chair, silently as the shadows surrounding him, and crawled on the bed, under the warmed covers. Watched the way his muscles shifted under the black cloth, watched his eyes as still as ever, fixed on her in total silence.

 

She didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate when his big hands reached for her and pulled her closer, deeper into his powerful frame. She was so fragile in his hands, so breakable. Her body such a measly obstacle for him, but in that moment it was him, her perfect creation, her child, that seemed fragile.

 

As his arms encircled her, as one of his hands rested on the back of her head pushing her face into the crook of his neck, she felt strong, powerful and alive in a way she couldn’t remember in a long time.

 

Pride and awe, and something else. Something more complicated and warmer surged through her as she allowed herself to be completely enveloped in his body.

 

“Thank you.” She whispered into his cool skin. “Thank you for not letting me kill them.”

 

Because she could. So easily. So effortlessly.

 

Sarah closed her eyes against the uneasy memory of the night before.

 

         <i> _Green. Brown. Blue spilling over the white sheets_. </i>

 

She would not remember. But she could not forget either. Forever suspended in limbo, endlessly at the edge of those two things, she had no more choice than Samuel Winchester when under the influence of the curse.

 

Her hand curled in the soft, expensive fabric of his shirt.

 

But at least Dean would be able to bond with Sam. If and when he accepted what it would entail.

 

His hand was almost gentle on her head, fingers skimming over her hair slowly.

 

_< i>Mother.</i>_

 

It was more of a feeling in her mind than an actual word, but she smiled nonetheless. It moved something deep inside her, something that no one but her Weapons ever touched.

 

As the sleep claimed her again, she wondered who was John and who his wife had been, for his two sons to be touched by powers so much older than time.

 

*        *        *

 

         John was still angry as he parked his truck in front of his motel. Not at Sarah, not any more. After he calmed down he understood that he was, indeed, getting in her way. And she was right. If he met Sam they would most probably end up fighting. So after nursing a single beer for hours and calming down sufficiently, John decided to go to Sarah and apologize for his behavior.

 

But she wasn’t home.

 

Nor then, neither eight hours later.

 

After the fruitless wait, worried and angry at himself and the lack of control he showed, John decided to go back to his motel, take a shower, change and get back to the hospital to Dean.

 

As he entered his room, he knew someone was there. Nothing was disturbed or destroyed, the salt line and sigils untouched, but in the middle of his bed laid a black duffer bag. Not his own.

 

It just rested there, suspicious in its very existence and seemed to dare John to look inside.

 

Reaching for the gun, more out of habit than actual necessity, John approached the bag, dreading what he might find inside.

 

He pulled the zipper open and spread the edges carefully. Then he took a step back, certainly not expecting what he found inside the bad.

 

There were stacks after stacks of money inside. All neatly bound, crispy and clean as if not really used much yet. Still in a state of shock, John overturned the duffle, letting the money spill out on the bed. He had no idea how much there might be or even if the money was real.

 

But he had a feeling, he knew who gave him those. John stood over the money, thinking about the way they were gathered, the horror they were connected to. But above all, John Winchester was a practical man.

 

Slowly he sat down on the bed and started counting.

 

*        *        *

         The second time Sarah woke up, she felt better. The fuzziness left her. She still felt tired, out of sorts but it was nothing she couldn’t shake. She also sensed she wasn’t alone in the bed. She blinked, trying to focus her eyes and slimed. Beside her, stretched on her back was T. The almost white paws were sticking up every which way. She smiled and petted the ridiculously soft fur. The long, white whiskers twitched and with a very distinct, and very disgusted ‘mmphf’ the cat turned on its side and went back to sleep.

 

Figures. Nothing can come between a cat and its sleep. Not even the hapless owner.

 

With a sigh Sarah got up. She felt torn. On the one hand, she wanted to get to know Samuel, the Weapon she created so long ago. On the other side she knew she had to ask him for a great sacrifice.

 

She tried to put the clothes she slept in into some king of order but it was no use. She looked like she was being mauled by something big and enthusiastic.

 

Still not exactly at the top of her game, her limbs lazy from sleep and eyes too dry, Sarah found the kitchen.

 

And him.

 

Samuel Winchester, her Soul Weapon, looked even more impressive and still now than he had before.

 

He was shirtless, the black jeans riding low on his hips revealing the whole expanse of pale, beautifully muscled back. She watched in purely female fascination the flex of his muscles under the smooth skin, the bunch of his biceps and the long fingered, elegant hands as he poured the water into an already waiting cup. Tea. She could smell it.

 

She doubted it was for him. In their full fighting capability, the one Samuel seemed to be trapped permanently in, the Wielder often forgot about such basic needs as food or sleep. In short periods of time it was good, it kept their focus on the fight. In the longer span of time, it would probably have grave repercussions to the body.

 

His hair was wet, the water heavy strands clinging to his long neck. She could see the single drop of water crawl slowly down through the sensual groove of his vertebra.

 

She turned her eyes away from the pure beauty she saw in him, the fascination she held for his sheer physicality. The kitchen was a large room, all stainless steel and real, polished wood. Very high end. And very empty. Bare. As if it was used for the first time now.

 

There was a huge fridge on her left side. Stainless steel, double door. She pulled it open, not really surprised to feel it move as quietly and as lightly as a feather.

 

It was empty. Completely, starkly, empty.

 

She looked around, at the spotless counters and empty cupboards. The man, although lived here, never used it.

 

In the middle of the kitchen was a huge table, mahogany if she wasn’t mistaken. The wood beautifully and simply crafted into something elegant and useful.

 

On the gleaming surface laid a single deli bag. She reached inside and found two sandwiches, a small salad and even a few candy bars.

 

“You should eat something.” The words came in the same low, sensual, thick as molasses voice he used before. It was strange. Hearing such simple words coming in this kind of voice.

 

He turned away from the stove, a white, ridiculously small mug in his large hand and put the tea on the table in front of her.

 

She sat down on one of the comfortable chairs.

 

“Why did you bring my cat here?” She asked quietly, looking at the food he was carefully putting in front of her.

 

He looked up at her, his black eyes almost one with the wet hair, the colors merging and falling into each other. She saw so much in his eyes. So black, so dark, a reflection of what she was before.

 

“Your sleep... it was uneasy.” One of his long arms reached out, the fingers strong yet so gentle, skimmed over her brow, barely touching. She never once felt the need to flinch. She trusted him more than she trusted anybody in her life.

 

A simple question. An answer that spoke so much more than any words could. She stared at the food, the candy and tea, none of which he had on hand. Her cat he had to go out and take from her apartment.

 

She looked up at him standing, shirtless, the pectoral muscles beautifully defined, a six pack of his stomach, the body so much bigger than hers and understood, felt something inside her tighten with wonder. The Soul Weapons were created for fight, for death, as a way to even the playing field. For all their purpose, the Weapons loved with innocence and devotion that just broke her heart, every time.

 

Trying to swallow the sudden emotion, Sarah pushed half the food towards him.

 

“Eat with me.”

 

He just stood there, dark and still and Sarah wondered if anyone but her saw the pain he was in.

 

“I’m not hungry.”

 

She unwrapped one of the sandwiches.

 

“I know. But you have to. I know you are strong. Powerful. But you still are human, essentially. You inhabit a human body. Although you probably changed it already, the needs stay the same. If you neglect them, you will hurt Sam Winchester, the man you are now one with.”

 

She took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. After a moment, he sat down across her and reached for the sandwich she left for him.

 

They ate in silence, splitting the food he brought. There was too much of it any way.

 

She chewed and swallowed, watching his slow, careful movements when he ate, mostly because she asked him to.

 

*        *        *

 

John put the duffle into his car and climbed into the truck. Two million. A massive amount of cash that would serve him good for a long, long time. New weapons, new storage places, new phones. The ability to live on cash rather than credit cards for a while. Reducing the risk of being caught significantly.

 

But it all gave him a bad feeling, a sense of dread deep in his gut. Because it all bore marks of a goodbye.

 

Besides he still couldn’t contact Sarah. She seemed like the kind of woman that knew how to take care of herself but still, she was missing for twelve hours now. He kept trying her phone. Both the home one and the cell but one went to voicemail and the other was obviously turned off.

 

The heavy feeling in his stomach, the bitterness in his throat he knew. It was guilt. Living and growing, threatening to suffocate him with each passing hour.

 

He sat in the truck, one hand clenched on the steering wheel, the other holding the phone.

 

“ _The number…”_ He cursed at the message and disconnected. Her cell was turned off, still. Or destroyed.

 

Refusing to think of what it might entail, he pressed the number one speed dial on his phone.

 

“Dad?” Came the raspy and confused voice after only one ring.

 

Dean.

 

“Yeah. Listen, are you still in the hospital?” He could hear that Dean wanted to say something different, ask questions but years of obedience came back and he answered Johns question.

 

“Yes. Just waiting for the doc to bring the paperwork.” He took a deep breath. “What happened? How did I get into the hospital? Where is Sam? Did I... did I manage to break the spell?”

 

“Not on the phone. I’ll be there in twenty, then we will talk. For now, you have to do something for me.” It was an order.

 

Whatever riposte he had, Dean swallowed it.

 

“Yes sir. What do I need to do?”

 

“Search the room.”

 

“What?” There was honest bafflement in his voice. “You want me to search my hospital room? What for?”

 

“A black duffel bag or anything that doesn’t belong to the hospital.” John ordered, not wanting to say too much over the phone.

 

“Sure, Dad.” There was a shallow breath as if Dean wanted to say something, but then he just disconnected.

 

John let the phone fall to his lap and with a curse he started the truck up. He peeled out of the parking lot, forcing an old Ford to break sharply. He didn’t once look back.

 

Whatever was going to happen with Sam, it was probably happening now. And he had to make sure Dean was safe. And where he could keep an eye on him.

 

 

*        *        *

 

She watched his tall form, his back to her. His shoulder had that tense quality to them that spoke of things better left unsaid. He had a black shirt on, unbuttoned and stood so still by the window. Watching the movement of people and cars.

 

Sarah wished she was psychic. Wished she could read his mind, know his thoughts. It was a wonder, how she managed to create something... so male, so unwilling to share the pain and fear.

 

She finally asked the Weapon to go to sleep. He didn’t say a word since then, only stared though that window as if he could find all the answers there.

 

“I don’t want to go back there.” The words, after so much silence, startled her and she felt herself jump a little.

 

“I’m sorry.” She said gently. Sorry for asking you for such a thing, sorry for wanting to help John so much, sorry she couldn’t just fix it all.

 

“It’s so cold there. Quiet. Empty.” He finally turned towards her. His eyes black, without whites or any other color, the black lines cutting though his pale cheeks like fresh wounds.

 

He was beautiful.

 

His chest, perfectly chiseled moved in time with his slow breaths, the sharply defined muscles flexing gently under the smooth skin.

 

“I’m so sorry.” She whispered, filled with guilt and desire to just turn away and leave. She was never an exceptionally good or bad person. Ordinary really. But she hated hurting him like that, hated that what she asked for would cause him pain. Hurt him.

 

In that moment he was hers, just hers.

 

Sarah closed her eyes feeling her throat tighten and her eyes burn. Shit. She hated that she was always so easy to cry. She even sniffed a bit watching movies. She felt like a total wimp.

 

Suddenly, he was just in front of her. She could smell the unique way he smelled, fresh, sharp. Masculine. His cool hands touched her face, tilting it up.

 

“Yes.” He murmured in that low, dark like molasses voice. “Yes.” He repeated and she could feel his gentle breath against her closed eyelids.

 

His thumbs skimmed over her damp cheeks, smearing the tears he found there.

 

Sarah reached up, wrapping her hands around his wrists. She didn’t try to stop him, to push him away. The tears fell harder. The guilt almost strangling her.

 

“I’m sorry. So sorry.” She kept repeating even as his lips, dry and infinitely gentle, touched her cheeks, gathering the warm saltiness there. “So sorry.”

 

*        *        *

 

         Los Angeles, a city of fast moving cars and baking sun. Dean used to like it. Now? He wished he never set foot in the city.

 

He heard his father’s footsteps in the corridor, long before the man appeared in his room. His heavy boots beat the familiar rhythm, strong and sure, on the tiled floor.

 

Dean leaned back in the bed, sitting causing him much more pain that he was willing to admit. When he looked at himself in the mirror he was rather green around the gills and the doc kept snarking at him for leaving the hospital so early. His ribs were taped extra tight, his left wrist swollen and throbbing, the bandage stark against his skin. It didn’t take him long to realize that the hospital staff had to cut off the bracelet.

 

A week ago he would be thrilled, being free from that damned lust spell. Now? Now he felt lost and scared. During those few brief days that bracelet became a kind of reassurance, a lifeline. It was the only thing that guaranteed Sam coming back.

 

Now he didn’t know if he had managed to break the spell, but the fact that he was rather alive suggested he did. Yet there was no Sam around and Dad sounded… strange on the phone.

 

And he had a strange feeling that he forgot something, that there was something he should remember...

 

“Dean? How do you feel, son?” His Dad sounded gruff, tired. At first Dean stiffened, fearing disappointment from his father. After all he screwed up royally. It took him a moment to realize that it was fear that made him sound so gruff. Fear and worry.

 

He smiled, a little fake, and tried to pretend he wasn’t feeling dizzy from the pain.

 

“I’m fine, Dad.”

 

His father’s whiskers twitched which meant he gritted his teeth together.

 

“I see.” The sarcasm was almost a living entity. “Did you do what I asked you to?”

 

“Yes sir.” Dean snapped, hurting and angry and, above all, scared and ashamed of his failure. “I found a bag. It’s under the bed.” He flushed scarlet. He never felt good showing any kind of weakness around his family, and admitting to his Dad that he couldn’t lift a fucking bag or bend down to open it was beyond humiliating.

 

John opened his mouth, but snapped it closed, probably realizing why Dean didn’t touch the bag.

 

John only nodded his head and then crouched to reach for the familiar looking black duffle. He pulled it out, unzipped and set beside his son.

 

“Sam was here, yesterday night. He left this. He also left one like this in my motel room.” John announced dryly.

 

“How can you be sure Sam brought this?”

 

John smiled a small, twisted smirk and pushed the bag towards Dean.

 

“Look inside.”

 

Curious, Dean did as his Dad told him to. And felt his jaw drop.

 

“Wha... how... wh…” It wasn’t often Dean found himself so totally out of words but this time he only kept staring at the stacks of bills neatly stuffed in the bag. “Jesus.”

 

“Yeah. I agree. Yesterday, when I was at Sarah’s place I got a phone call. From your cell phone. But when I answered it, there was only silence. I tried to call back but no one answered. So I came back to the motel, hoping to find you there.”

 

“And you did.”

 

John swallowed loudly, obviously rattled at the memory.

 

“I thought you were dead at first. Jesus Dean, I thought I lost you.”

 

Still too stunned to react properly, Dean only patted his father’s arm weakly, his eyes glued to the money.

 

“We called 911, got you to the hospital. Sarah was there the whole time with me. After a while she said that Sam was here, too. She could sense him somehow. We had a fight and she threw me out. She said I shouldn’t see Sam right now.”

 

Dean snorted.

 

“You would have pissed each other in less than three seconds. She was right. It would have been a bloodshed.”

 

John cringed, but didn’t deny.

 

“Sarah stayed here...” He trailed off unhappily and Dean caught the hesitation.

 

“What happened?”

 

John turned his eyes away, staring through the window at the sunny sky.

 

“She is missing, Dean. I haven’t heard from her in over twelve hours. She’s not home, she’s not answering her cell.”

 

Dean looked at his father and got a vague flashback of a blond woman with a little weight on her. Pretty face. More than something to breathe with and most amazing looking hair he saw in a long time.

 

“You are afraid she’s dead.” Whispered Dean.

 

John flinched.

 

“If she is, her blood is on my hands.” He said quietly.

 

*        *        *

 

Once again Sarah found herself lying on the huge bed. In front of her, facing her, was Samuel Winchester. His eyes still black like night and black lines on his face. But his eyes were different now, the blackness loosing its power becoming bleak and dull with each pass of her hand through his silky, still a little damp, hair.

 

He was already falling asleep.

 

“Don’t tell him.” His voice was soft now, raspy, on the verge of sleep.

 

Sarah didn’t need to ask who he had in mind. She had a flash of those incredible blue, green, brown eyes. A shudder ran though her, a terrible feeling.

 

“He doesn’t need to know.” He added again. His voice slow, thick with sleep. Already drifting away.

 

She stroked his too long hair, the strands warm and silky under her fingers.

 

“I won’t.” It was a futile promise, she knew. Sooner or later Dean would learn the truth. She wondered just what he would do with it?

 

She watched the beautiful onyx eyes dim a little more. There was one more question she needed to ask.

 

“How much of Samuel Winchester is there?”

 

His eyes opened a little, long, dark lashes casting tiny shadows on his pale cheeks. He looked almost vulnerable. She shifted a little closer to him, his long body relaxed, sinking into the soft covers.

 

As his lids lowered for the final time a quiet, almost gentle whisper left his lips.

 

“Too much.”

 

 

 

TBC.


	15. Chapter 15

John helped Dean into the motel room. He kept a careful hand on his son’s elbow. The painkillers Dean took in the car were kicking in and he was already muzzy and clumsy. It would only take minutes for Dean to fall asleep.

With a tightness in his belly, John watched as Dean lowered himself all too carefully to the narrow motel bed. He hated seeing his son in pain. For all the accusations that he treated his children like soldiers, he never wanted them to be hurt.

He watched Dean so focused, so desperate to save Sam. Do whatever was needed to bind him here, to him. John understood the failure he was as a father. When he first realized Sam’s feelings for Dean he should have talked to him, made him understand. Instead he let Sam push all his buttons and threw his own child out, forbidding him from coming home ever again.

His father did the same to him when John was eighteen. The fight he had with his old man wasn’t even that huge. It was just another one in a series of nasty screaming matches. His father threw him out, telling him never to come back. It was ironic, how he hadn’t thought about it when he was throwing Sam out. How he forgot the sharp, tearing pain the words caused. The feeling of betrayal. The hurt. A child always believes it can come back home. When a parent says things like he said to Sam… there is nothing that can erase it. Sure, when John came back from the army and met Mary, he started talking to his father again. They even said sorry to each other. But even though his father came for dinners and Christmas’ until he died, John never considered him a real parent again. Never trusted him, not like he did before those words were planted between them.

Some things can be forgiven, but never forgotten.

In his anger, pride and fear, he pushed away one son and made the other bear a weight that was much too big for his shoulders.

He wanted to say I’m sorry, but that just wasn’t the way he was built. Sometimes that single word seemed so hard. Harder than anything else in his life.

John sat in the chair, watching as his son’s breathing evened out and he fell asleep. Suddenly, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out; there was one message received.

Checking to see if his son was still asleep, John quietly pushed the buttons to read the text. There wasn’t much. Just a street name and a number. And the fact that the message was sent from Sammy’s phone number. 

He briefly considered waking Dean up, but then remembered the way Dean winced while sitting and the problems he got with getting in and out of the truck. He decided to check it out himself and then bring Dean in if necessary. 

* * *

Dean opened his eyes when John shut the door behind himself. He wiped off his hand, the pill he pretended to take smeared out on his palm. He knew, just fucking knew his Dad wouldn’t tell him if he knew anything.

Normally, the way John kept everything to himself didn’t bother Dean. He trusted his father. But this was Sam they were talking about. A scared, angry, confused Sam. It was not a time for Dad to go anywhere near him. 

A flash of guilt tore through Dean. All the fights, the way Sam and Dad kept fighting over every little thing, all the bad words between them... they were all Dean’s fault. But he couldn’t think about it now. Couldn’t think about what he would feel for Sam, with Sam, when he saw him again. Him. His brother. Again, after what seemed like an eternity. Jesus, how he missed Sam.

Cursing softly at the sharp pain in his ribs, Dean got up and waited to hear Dad’s truck start. As soon as it left the parking lot, he was out of the room and heading for the Impala. 

* * *  
John didn’t know what he expected, but Sarah simply opening the door with the number he received in the text message wasn’t one of those things. The sheer... normality of the act took him aback.

“Sarah? Are you all right?” He asked stepping in, not even waiting for her to invite him in.

Sarah looked haunted somehow. Tired. Unwell.

“I hurt him. I hurt him for you. I hope you realize it,” She whispered with a kind of frantic urgency. John wondered if she wanted him to feel guilty.

“Sarah...” And he did. Feel guilty. For so many reasons.

John cupped her face in his palms, looking, searching her for any injury. His hands looked big and clumsy touching her soft skin.

She tilted her head, lips moist and soft. An invitation he accepted. She tasted of sweet tea and something spicy, just like she did before. John felt a rush, a strange sense of pleasure at the way she was pliant in his arms, at the soft, almost shy way she gave herself into the kiss, letting him lead. Letting him control it.

“I’m okay.” She whispered against his lips, her warm breath fanning his lips. “I was never in any danger from him.”

“What happened?”

“The weapon is asleep now. Your son... is back.”

Just a few simple words, barely a sentence and John felt everything inside him freeze.

“Where...” He didn’t even need to finish the question. He just followed Sarah’s line of sight. A heavy, oak door to the left of the expensively furnished living room. He made a step towards the closed door.

“John, don’t go in. It’s not a good idea John. Not now.” Sarah tried to stop him, but he just pushed her away. It was his son, his child. There was nothing that could stop John from seeing him.

He pushed the door open and had to take a step back. 

The bedroom was a wreck. The chairs were overturned, lamps broken, sharp pieces of glass scattered all around the room. The expensive looking rug was pushed to the side, something dark and sticky splattered all over it. The windows shades were closed, darkness hiding the full scope of the damage. The bedside table was smashed into pieces, more glass around it.

The huge bed was messed up, the covers half on, half off the piece of furniture. On the floor, by the foot of the bed, sat Sam. Dressed in black trousers and nothing else, his chest pale in the surrounding darkness, he didn’t look up at John. His head was bent, arms wrapped around his knees, knuckles scraped raw. His hair looked longer than John remembered it, messed up, strands were falling all over his face, obscuring his eyes. There was only a small part of his jaw visible, and even that looked tense. There was a feeling of tension, of tightly coiled aggression coming off of Sam. 

“Sam?” John asked, feeling his voice crack a little.

His son raised his head, his face was pale and shiny, sweat or tears, John couldn’t tell. But his eyes were green, his face familiar once again.

Sam looked at him, his eyes hard and burning like John has never seen before.

“Are you happy now?” Sam’s voice is so raspy it’s painful to listen to. It’s filled with turmoil and something more, something darker.

“What?” John was honestly confused, not really getting what his son meant.

“Are you satisfied?” Sam unfolded his long, surprisingly strong frame from the crouch he was in. “That Nathaniel Belmonde managed to make me into what you tried for twenty two years?” Sam sounded almost calm, eerily cold. In a way, he was much, much more scary now than when he was... possessed. There was venom in his voice that sent shivers down John’s spine.

“What are you talking about Sam?”

His son made an odd, snorting sound. He raised completely. His pale, strong body stretching out to its full height, towering over John. His eyes were flat and hard, filled with something uncomfortably akin to hatred.

“Don’t pretend. He did what you tried to. Must have hurt, huh?” 

Sam turned, spying a glass that seemed miraculously untouched by the destruction around them. he bent down and picked it up.

“Do you know why he chose me?” Sam asked almost conversationally. “Belmonde. Why he chose me? Because why grab some poor shmuck of the street...” Sam’s voice was becoming harder and harder, like tiny, jagged glass shards, “if he could have someone who was trained to be a fucking killer his whole life?” He turned to John again, his eyes burning with anger and rage and hatred that squeezed the breath out of John’s chest. “He finished what you started. Made me a damn near perfect killer. A murderer.” The glass shattered in Sam’s fist, the glass cutting into his hand. Thin rivulets of blood fell down his hand and dripped onto the hardwood floor. “He made of me what you tried your fucking whole, miserable life to do. And look how good I turned out to be.” He sneered, not even looking down at his bleeding hand. “Are you happy now? Are you fucking proud, Dad?” he took a step towards John, his eyes feverish with rage, the tendons in his neck standing out. “Or should I fucking call you Sir? Like the fucking grunts you raised Dean and me to be? Soldiers that obeyed your God damned orders without question?”

Sam spread his hands wide, his chest flexing with the movement, the crushed glass still clutched hard in his bloody hand.

“Look at me. Look at what you created! Are you happy now?”

John just stared at him, horrified, not a word in his mouth.

“Answer me, God damn it!” Sam threw what was left of the glass at John, pieces of glass and droplets of blood splashing on John’s face. His son’s blood. His son’s hatred.

“Sam… this, this was never what I wanted for you… I...” He stuttered, honestly unable to formulate one coherent thought under the onslaught of accusations.

Sam smiled, a painful, insane grin.

“Well, Dad, it’s what you get when you teach a eight year old child to kill. Nathaniel Belmonde twisted me, but you sure as hell laid the foundation for him!”

John could feel the blood and pieces of glass on his face, could feel it drip down onto his neck and shoulders but all he could do was stare at Sam. He knew he and his younger son had issues but he never knew, never realized that Sam, his Sammy, hated him this much.

“Son...” He tried again. Sam flinched like slapped.

“Don’t you dare call me that again. You don’t have the fucking right to call yourself a father! It was all your fault! Get out.” Sam’s voice reached a dangerous pitch and a vein in his forehead started pulsing madly. Sam looked, for all instances and purposes, like he would attack John.

“Get the fuck out!” he screamed, teeth showing and his fists clenching, sending even more blood to drip down onto the floor.

Still too dumbfounded to do anything, John groped for the door handle and stumbled out, face pale and legs as weak as a kitten‘s. It was just too much. That look in Sam’s eyes. That anger, hatred, coming out of him in waves. The accusations that held just enough truth to get to him.

He stumbled out of the bedroom, letting the door slam closed behind him. He didn’t go far, just a step away and then he slid down the nearest wall. His eyes were wide open and staring sightlessly ahead. 

Wondering about Sam’s feeling, speculating if his youngest son ever forgave John for what he did when Sam was eighteen was never the same as actually seeing the anger and hatred in his son’s eyes, hearing it in his son’s voice, his words.

He just sat there, on the floor, trying to understand all the ways he let his children down.

“John!” 

He was barely aware of Sarah calling his name and coming to crouch beside him. 

“What happened?”

He felt her press something to his face. Warm and wet, rough. A towel. It took him a moment to realize she was cleaning the blood from his face. His son’s blood.

“Damn you.” Came an unexpected, raspy voice. “Couldn’t you just once trust me, Dad?”

John opened his eyes to see Dean, standing in the open door. One arm curled protectively around his ribs. John should have expected Dean, really. When it came to Sam, Dean seemed to have a sixth sense or something because he always, always was around.

Before John had the time to answer, Dean pushed past them and entered the dark bedroom. Fearless, like usual.

John wanted to call out for him, but the strange expression on Sarah’s face caught his attention. She was looking at Dean, but not really. Her eyes were fixed just somewhere in the vicinity of Dean’s face. She was clearly avoiding eye contact and that was strange. Because she never did that before. It was almost as if she was afraid. The tension in her body, the tight set to her jaw. Was she afraid of Dean? Because that was ridiculous.

* * *

Dean had to blink a few times before his eyes adjusted to the darkness in the room.

The first thing he noticed was the horrible mess. Everything was either smashed or overturned. The room smelled of sweat and blood, pieces of glass glittering here and there on the floor. He noticed the dark splotches on the hardwood floor and his eyes followed the trail of blood to the foot of the huge bed. 

There, sitting on the floor, with his arms around his knees, sat Sam in all his emo glory. Dean could actually feel his heart skip a beat. Just from this one glance, this split second he knew. Knew with everything he was that it was his brother. His Sammy. One hand curled into a loose fist was resting on the sharp boned knee, and the other. Long fingered and pale, was hanging limply, fat drops of blood welling slowly on the fingertips before falling down with a tiny splash.

Drip.

Drip.

“Hey bro.” It’s embarrassing, really, the way his voice broke. The way his emotions just spilled like blood.

Sam turned his head way, refusing to look at Dean. His hair hid his eyes, dark shadows obscuring most of his face. 

It hurt. That Sam wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t even speak to him. But who could blame him? Dean also didn’t know what to say, how to talk to his little brother whom he fucked with every night for almost a week. 

Sam remained stubbornly silent, face turned away from Dean, body huddled on the floor. Dean wanted to crack a joke, laugh it off but... he fucking missed Sam so much. Was so damn afraid that he would never get the chance to see his brother, the real one, again that the need to reconnect, to touch Sam was now was choking him. 

He took a step closer and Sam kind of shrunk, drew into himself more. Avoiding Dean, trying to hide from him somehow.

Dean reached out to him, but Sam flinched violently. It felt like someone stuck a knife in his belly and twisted.

“Sam.” He whispered at a loss.

“Don’t. Just... don’t.” Sam’s voice was harsh, like gravel.

Dean felt a familiar burning in his eyes, tears that he wouldn’t ever let fall. Not in front of his brother, the one he promised to protect. He reached out again, his hand shaking in a way it hadn’t in years. His fingertips barely touched the dark hair before Sam flinched again, turning away even more. But this time Dean wasn’t going to let him hide. He took a step closer, crowding his brother and his hand curled in the floppy, soft hair. He wasn’t gentle, but he was desperate for contact, for something to prove it was his brother.

“Sam.” It was embarrassing how he only seemed to be able to repeat his brother’s name. His usually smart mouth failed him now. 

His brother was still turned away, curled in on himself, trying to get as far away from Dean as he could in the limited space. His bloody hands were curled slightly, resting limply on his thighs, looking so freaking pale against the dark cloth. He looked small and broken, young like Dean thought he would never see him again. He tightened his hand more in the longish hair. All he wanted was to kneel beside Sam and hug him, like when they were little. When a simple hug would be enough to make things better. 

“How can you?” Sam barely whispered. The sound weak and thready. “How can you even touch me? After all that I have done... after what I have become?”

Dean gritted his teeth against the pain of his ribs as he slid slowly to his knees, trying to pull Sam into his arms. The younger man resisted, his bleeding hands fisted. 

“Don’t you get it, Sam? You are my brother and I won’t leave you. Ever.” And yeah, he hated chick flick moment, but he hated seeing Sam in pain even more. 

Pulling him into an embrace felt like rearranging a puppet with broken strings. His body cold and hard and lifeless, his wounded hands just lying uselessly between them, dripping ruby blood onto the expensive floor. 

All the answer he got was a hitched breath and then a tiny shift of Sam’s body as he turned slightly into Dean. Letting his head loll into the crook of Dean’s arm. Letting himself be touched. 

“It’s going to be okay, bro.” Dean had to swallow the fear he felt inside. He never saw Sam this broken, this lifeless before. Not even after Jess. “We’ll get through this. Just like we always do.” He felt like a four year old again, holding the tiny bundle of squirming cloth that was his brother against his chest and staring at the flames consuming his home. Like then, he didn’t know what to do, what to feel besides the need to hold onto his brother no matter what.

Sam didn’t cry. Didn’t shiver. Didn’t make a sound. Just breathed, open mouthed, against the collar of Dean’s shirt. He could feel each hot, wet exhalation, hear it in the eerily quiet room and it hurt him more than being shot with rock salt. Because even here, in his arms, Sam was so far away from him. And he kept pulling away, hiding inside, not letting Dean help.

His knees screamed bloody murder at him, his ass and thighs went numb and his ribs hurt so bad he had to blink rapidly to chase the black spots from his vision. The smell of blood and despair slowly suffocated him. He looked down, between them. Sam’s hands weren’t bleeding any more, the blood becoming dry, rusty black instead of the liquid red he saw before. The wounds were clotting. It wasn’t good though. He could still see pieces of glass sticking from the pale flesh. They needed to clean the wounds or it could end really bad. After all he went through, after all that had to be done to have Sam back, he wasn’t going to risk Sam’s life to a fucking infection.

Dean looked around, noticing the partially open door in one of the walls. He caught a glimpse of tile. A bathroom probably.

“Come on, Sam. We need to take care of your hands.” 

Dean tried to tug and pull his unresponsive brother up, but the moment he tried to stand up himself, he nearly keeled over in pain. Something spasmed in his chest, the pain like a burning vise locking his whole chest, making it impossible to breath. 

For a moment his vision turned black and he felt himself falling. Only to be caught by strong, familiar hand. More familiar now than ever before.

“You are hurting.” For a moment Sam sounded like himself again. All concerned emo and whiny little bitch that he sometimes got when Dean got hurt. And the inevitable happened and Sam remembered just who was responsible for his bruised ribs.

Fuck.

“Sam...” He tried to say that it was nothing, but his voice drifted off into a sharp gasp of pain he couldn’t hold in as Sam pulled him upright. Giant freaking bastard.

“I did this. I hurt you.” There was a broken quality to Sam’s voice. A kind of slow, creeping terror that Dean needed to stop. Because now Sam was so fragile, that one more thing would just break him down completely, too far beyond any kind of help.

Dean could still remember that night, one of the endless motel rooms, his chest still hurting from the rock salt blast and Sam, shivering and crying. Promising. Begging.

_He could feel wetness on Sam’s cheeks as he pressed his face in the crook of Dean’s arm. His lips moved, Dean could feel it, but it took him a while to understand the whispered words._

_“So sorry, I’m so sorry. I’ll never hurt you again. I promise.” Sam repeated those words over and over again, desperately trying to believe them._

Dean thought about all the times the Weapon touched him, about the careful, ruthless control of its power. It occurred to him that he never even got a bruise given in anger. Sam or the Weapon had not once lashed out at him.

_I’ll never hurt you again._

He didn’t believe Sam then. No one could promise such a thing.

But now, remembering all the times the weapon could have just forced, just taken what it wanted, he realized something. Sam was telling the truth. He suffered pain, even when he wasn’t himself, he influenced the Weapon so much it was almost gentle towards Dean. 

And his ribs. Well, he should have been dead. The spell was simple. Kill anyone who tried to break the chain. And Dean did. Yet all he suffered from that encounter was some bruised ribs. Not even broken.

“Listen to me, Sam, and listen good. You were supposed to kill me. You hear me? Kill me. And what did you do? You just fucking slammed me into a freaking wall.”

“Your ribs...”

Dean laughed.

“They’re fucking bruised. Not even broken. So what? The wall must have been harder. The point is, you resisted the spell. You never once hurt me. So don’t you go and blame yourself for it!”

Sam opened his mouth to argue but Dean stepped right in.

“How much did it hurt, Sam? To resist the spell like that? To resist that guy’s orders every time he ordered you to kill me?”

This time Sam closed his mouth and looked away, his hair obscuring his eyes.

“How bad, Sam?” Dean insisted, but all he got from Sam’s face was a muscle jumping when he clenched his jaw. That was an answer in itself, Dean figured.

“I don’t remember.”

Dean could feel, with a clarity he rarely felt, that if they didn’t talk it out, Sam would just break. There were wounds in his brother’s mind, great chasms of terror and guilt that wouldn’t just mend themselves. If left alone, they would fester and ooze pus and venom, poisoning Sam until he died. He saw it in the dark, shadowed eyes. In the way his brother’s gaze seemed to have lost all the light, all the will to live. Saw it in the shadows of his skin.

Yeah right, he wanted to say. But didn’t. It wasn’t the time nor the place for it. 

“Let’s get your hands cleaned.”

* * *

It took a long time to clean Sam’s hands. Dean stood in the small bathroom, holding those big palms over the sink and pulled tiny shards of glass from the cut, angry red flesh.

The water swirled pink into the drain, but Sam didn’t make a sound. Dean kept his head low, staring at the wounded hands, trying to come to terms with the fact that they had touched him. Intimately. That he had sex with Sam every night. For over a week. And it wasn’t just sex. It was fucking incredible. He could still remember how perfectly Sam played his body, how he pushed it beyond the edge of pain. Into the realm of mind blowing pleasure. His little brother literally fucked his brains out, repeatedly.

It changed the way he saw his brother. Sam became a sexual being, someone that could turn him on. With or without the bracelet. In a way, the last week has conditioned Dean’s body into a physical response to Sam’s nearness. And frankly, Dean had no idea what to do with it.

As he started to wrap Sam’s hands into the bandages he found in the first aid kit above the sink, he was aware of his brother watching him. Quiet, falsely calm, Sam’s eyes seemed to bore holes in the top of his head. 

“Why?” Sam asked, his voice hoarse, almost breaking.

Dean should have expected this question. Really. But even though he knew Sam would eventually ask, he still didn’t know what to say to make it okay. So he shrugged.

“Dean.” 

He tied the last of the bandage around Sam’s hand and took a step back.

“I would do anything for you Sam. You know that. Anything to save you.”

Sam cocked his head to the side, his skin looking even more pale now than before.

“How was... that supposed to save me?” He sounded baffled, lost. Again, Dean saw something fragile in his brother. Despite the fact that he was so much taller than Dean, he looked as fragile as a child.

“You came back.” Dean’s voice dropped, reaching the low, husky tones he wasn’t really used to. It made his throat tingle, hurt a bit. “You came back to me. Not to him. To me. Every night. As long as you kept coming back, Dad and I, we had time to figure something out.”

“Dad?”

Dean rolled his eyes.

“Yes. Dad. Who do you think told me about your little crush? Who found Sarah and convinced her to help you? I was a little preoccupied at the time.”

Sam stared at him. Shock and disbelief etched on his face.

“Dad told you?” He whispered, his face even paler than before.

Dean wanted to snap at Sam that yes, he did. To save Sam. To give Dean an edge. But then he remembered the journal. The last entries. Dad purposefully pushed Sam away. To protect Dean. However it turned out, Dad was just trying to protect Dean. And it still hurt. That Sam would have to suffer because of him. It also occurred to him that Sam didn’t have the insight he did into their father. Sam never saw that journal. All he knew was that John was disgusted with him and considered him a threat to Dean.

“Yeah. He... understood the comment you made in the warehouse. About forgiving him.”

Sam stared at him with dark eyes, tired. Only now, did Dean notice how tired he looked under the veneer of anger. In fact, looking closely at him, Dean saw exhaustion in the gray lines of veins under his skin.

“I can’t imagine Dad talking to you about it. That’s not the man I know.”

Dean snorted at that.

“Sometimes, Sammy, I wonder if you know Dad at all. You seem to see him as some kind of villain. I agree he made mistakes, but he is our father and he did his best. He loves us.”

“You maybe. Me? I was always a disappointment to him. Always too much or not enough. You? You were always the golden boy. You have no idea how it felt to know that I would never be good enough.” Oddly enough, there was no anger towards Dean. Somehow instead of simple jealousy towards Dean, Sam shifted all his negative emotions towards his father. It was bizarre, having this conversation and maybe understanding Sam and his issues towards Dad in the small but expensively furnished bathroom.

“So what? Instead of trying harder, you decided to throw your anger in Dad’s face?” Dean asked, thinking that it was the most idiotic thing he had ever heard. Was that the reason for all those years of fighting? Jesus.

“I wouldn’t jump just because he told me to, and that, according to John Winchester, was a crime. But guess what. I am not and never will be a perfectly obedient little soldier for anyone.” Sam hissed, anger slowly building behind his dark green eyes. 

“And what were you doing for the last four weeks?” Dean wanted to slap himself as soon as the words left his mouth, damn him and his stupid, mind-bypassing mouth.

Something hot and fierce flashed in Sam’s eyes. Anger and defiance Dean knew so well from the countless fights he witnessed between Sam and their Dad. It always awed him a little that Sam could just say no to their Dad. Dean never quite learned how to do that.

“Was I?” Sam hissed, leaning closer to Dean, his eyes dark and dangerous, keeping Dean’s gaze captured. “The man who did this? He wouldn’t share your opinion. Even if he could.”

Dean’s breath hitched. Because there was a madness in Sam’s eyes. Grief and pain and rage so powerful it bordered on insanity. He cursed himself a thousand times for bringing the subject up.

“Sam...” He started hesitantly, not really wanting to know the answer but still needing to. “What did you do?”

And the anger was gone. Like a candle extinguished with a strong blow. Sam recoiled from him, eyes wide and scared. Guilty.

“I...” He stuttered and that was terrifying in its ridiculousness. Sam never stuttered. “I eviscerated him. Slowly. Oh God.” Sam looked down at his hands, the white bandage stark against his black shirt. “Oh God.” With that his eyes rolled back, until only the whites were visible and he folded to the ground. Like a puppet with its strings cut.

Dean barely managed to catch his brother’s heavy frame. It was obvious he didn’t remember. Not until Dean had to open his big mouth and make him think about it. Shit, shit, shit. Just how much was Dean going to fuck this up? But he couldn’t hold Sam, his ribs screaming bloody murder at him. It hurt so bad he felt his own knees give and they both ended on the floor. Sam unconscious, arms and legs sprawled haphazardly in the cramped space and Dean, sitting on the cold tile, trying to keep Sam’s head in his lap, his vision swimming from the pain. His little brother was fucking too big for him now. In more than one sense. There was only one thing left to do.

“Dad!” He yelled as loud as he could. Because unlike Sam, he trusted and believed in their father.

* * *

“What happened?” Asked John, while lugging his not-so-little son into the bed and trying not to get killed by the debris lying around. Sam was a dead weight in his arms. Not a small one, either. But in some ways John was grateful for the chance to touch Sam. Earlier Sam wouldn’t let him get close and after the fight... well, he didn’t think he would get a chance to be close to his younger son any time soon.

“Don’t know. He just... collapsed.” Dean panted leaning heavily on the wall. Sarah hovered near him, but he barely even looked at the blonde woman. She acted stranger, skittish, almost afraid near him which was odd. Women never felt threatened by Dean. But he didn’t think about it much. He couldn’t stop watching his brother. He was afraid, again, still, he didn’t know. He just got him back and before he could really, really feel it, this happened. 

He never saw his brother faint before. For all his girly emo stuff, Sam was always strong and resistant. He never got sick, never complained about pain if hurt. He was a Winchester. So to see him now, unconscious, almost vulnerable on the messed up bed while his father laid him down was disconcerting.

“Maybe he has some injuries we weren’t aware of...” John started pulling Sam’s shirt apart to reveal the pale expanse of muscled flesh that seemed much closer to the bone than before. But beside the weight loss Sam seemed all right.

“Not likely.” Interjected Sarah. 

Both the Winchesters looked at her and the woman shifted so she was facing John. Again, she was avoiding looking at Dean and it tugged at his mind. As if it was something important, something just at the tip of his tongue... but it wasn’t something he was focusing on now. 

“What do you mean?”

“As I said before, the lines on his face and black eyes meant that he was in fight readiness. Something the wielders were supposed to be in for seconds, maybe minutes at a time. In that state the testosterone, adrenaline and serotonine levels are extremely high.” She started calmly.

“You saying that Sam was high as a kite for almost a month straight?” Dean asked surprised.

“Yes.” She didn’t look at him. “It’s meant to make the wielder stronger, faster, more dangerous. But Sam was exposed to this state for weeks. He probably barely ate and slept, his body constantly thrumming with tension. I would expect him to be very exhausted, probably malnourished and dehydrated.”

John shook his head.

“No. Not possible. If he didn’t eat properly for a month his body would have showed it more. He lost some weight but it’s not much. Look at him. He would have burned the muscle mass first.”

Sarah made a small sound.

“No, he wouldn’t.”

Dean decided to interject.

“Dad is right. I’ve seen what hunger does to people. Sam would have looked completely different. Dad is right about the muscles. They would have to go. Three weeks is too long for a body to sustain itself on fat alone, especially since he had no fat to begin with.”

Sarah shook her head, with one more of those strange sighs. She went closer to the bed, standing at the foot of it. She extended one of her hand and kept her open palm just inches away from Sammy’s leg.

“His body didn’t burn the muscles because it couldn’t.”

“What do you mean?” Asked John, lifting the sheets from the floor and checking them for any debris before pulling them over his son’s unconscious body. He sounded odd. Like he knew what she was leading to. Or at least suspected. Dean hated that. Hated that he was kept in the dark when it came to his brother. 

“His muscles, tendons and the main veins and arteries have been changed. By the Weapon. To make him stronger, better suited for the fight. The tissues are a little different. Not too much, but enough that his body couldn’t burn it for fuel. And he wasn’t starving completely. He ate something from time to time. I think it’s only now catching up with him. After the weapon went to sleep, his body is feeling the results of the neglect.”

John stared at her, eyes hard and not betraying anything. A warrior. It was that strength that she saw in him before, the thing that led her into his bed, and probably the reason he would leave. 

She expected a fight, an argument. But nothing came. John just stared at her for a longest moment. Judging her. Gauging her. And then he moved closer to the head of the bed, put one knee on the mattress, leaned over Sam and pushed his jaws open. Without preamble he pulled his tongue out and peered at it closely. It had a strange, unhealthy coloring.

“You are right. He’s dehydrated.” He consented.

“Then we’re screwed.” Dean croaked, feeling his knees give out under him a little. It took all of his will to just stay upright. But every minute he spent standing was just making the pain worse. “He’s unconscious. He won’t swallow any fluids and we certainly can’t take him to a hospital. He wrecked too much of a havoc in this city. There might be cops looking for him.”

“You are right, Dean. Hospital is out of the question right now.” John stood up, all primed and ready for action. Dean recognized the familiar tone and the posture. His Dad had a plan and it made him feel ridiculously grateful. He didn’t even realize how much he relied on his father to fix things. “You stay here, Dean, with Sam.” John looked at him sternly. “On the bed. You look like you are going to collapse any second and I know the ribs must be killing you from all the exertion.” John pointed to the spot beside Sam on the huge mattress. “On the bed. I will go out and find some IV’s and drips for Sam. He’s young and in excellent physical condition, he should bounce back pretty quick.”

John didn’t wait for confirmation, secure on the knowledge that Dean wouldn’t refuse a direct order like that.

* * *

Feeling ridiculous lying propped out on the pillows, Dean watched Sarah. She was sitting on the edge of the mattress, close to Sam and she was stroking his brother’s face. Dean didn’t like it. It felt odd, bad to have her touch his brother. He was jealous in a way. He wanted to reconnect with Sam too. Wanted to hold him, hug him, wanted to smell the scent of his skin. Just to make sure he was here and alive. But he couldn’t. It seemed that there was nothing innocent left for him. Any kind of touch, even the press of their bodies as they lay side by side, seemed charged with sense-memory of the sex they had. His body reacted to Sam’s heat and closeness like it would to a lover. But he didn’t have the bracelet any more. It confused him. And it made him feel guilty. Maybe his body was conditioned into a response but his mind should have won over it. Sam was his brother for fucks sake. Little brother. How the hell could he feel like that towards him?

And bringing him back didn’t solve one thing. His feelings for Dean. How was he supposed to tell Sam that now that he was back, Dean wouldn’t be sleeping with him? That Dean only used his feeling, his...love... to keep him attached? Because, despite the fight, Dean didn’t really think it occurred to Sam that he wouldn’t be allowed to touch him any more.

He shifted his gaze towards his brother’s sharp chin and the mass of shaggy hair around his face. He couldn’t fathom, couldn’t understand, not for real, just how Sam managed to keep those feelings for Dean for so damn long?

“Ah... Sarah... could you bring me something to drink?” He asked with his best puppy eyes. Her head came up and she looked at him, but she didn’t meet his eyes this time either.

“Sure.”

He wasn’t thirsty. He just wanted to make her leave. Wanted to be alone with his brother for a moment. He watched her go. She wasn’t his type. Too tall, too heavily built, too much on her bones. He always liked his women tiny and athletic. But she and John seemed to have reached a kind of connection he hasn’t seen between his dad and anybody else for a very long time.

When the door closed behind her, Dean turned towards Sam. He pulled himself up on the bed and closer to his brother. He ran his fingers over Sam’s forehead in a gesture he used to do when Sam was little. He still remembered the little boy he taught to tie his shoelaces, remembered the not-quite-teenage Sammy that got himself beat up because he stood up for someone weaker. Dean remembered the embarrassing talks about girls and stuff. It felt wrong, on so many levels, to remember how Sam’s dick felt inside him too. 

But he would deal, like he always did. Right now, the most important thing was that he had Sam back. Whole and alive. 

“It’s going to be okay little brother.” He whispered gently in the quiet room. “I promise.”

* * *

Dean woke up to total darkness. He felt strangely fuzzy around the edges, his limbs slow to react. He turned his head to the sound of soft breathing and relaxed upon seeing Sam sleeping peacefully beside him. He looked better. His face wasn’t so incredibly pale any more and the shadows under his eyes had lessened. Dean blinked a few times and cursed as his ribs protested when he tried to prop himself on one elbow to take a closer look around the room.

The windows were dark and it took him a moment to realize that it was because it was dark outside. He must have slept for hours. He noticed that he was covered in a warm blanked, and so was Sam. Beside the bed stood a heavy, old fashioned coat hanger and on it hung an IV bag. He followed the thin tube down where it disappeared into Sam’s arm. He couldn’t believe he slept through someone coming into the bedroom, lugging the huge coat hanger and attaching the IV to his brother. Just when he was starting to worry that he had gotten a concussion no one knew about, he licked his dry lips. He had a strange taste in his mouth...

“What a bitch.” He cursed quietly. Sarah must have slipped him something into the juice she brought him. Fuck.

He wanted to get up but he felt sleepy and lazy and basically not like doing anything more than blinking. With a sigh he flopped down on the bed, the soft mattress bouncing him a bit.

Sam grumbled something in his sleep and turned on his side, facing Dean.

Dean froze, not really wanting to wake his brother up. 

The younger Winchester mumbled something and turned on his side, tugging at the IV. He shifted so his arm, the one with the IV, flopped over Dean’s stomach and one of Sam’s legs nestled itself between his brother’s. Dean was well and truly pinned. Making some more of those heartbreakingly innocent snuffing noises Sam shifted again and his face found a spot on Dean’s shoulder. In the place where his shoulder and neck met.

Sam was relaxed and sleeping deeply. Dean couldn’t remember the last time he saw his brother this calm. Even long before the Weapon, Sam slept like it was a punishment not rest. Dean wanted Sam to sleep as long as possible, but this closeness was unnerving him. It was his brother, but it was also the man that licked and touched his naked body, and made him come time and time again with sweet cruelty. 

He could feel the warm, moist pants of breath on his skin, could feel the barely there touch of slightly parted, moist lips on his neck. Sam was like a furnace, the warmth of his body seeping through the blankets and clothes. Making Dean feel hot and aroused. 

“Dean.”

It was barely a whisper, the word slurred and fuzzy around the edges but the tone was unmistakable. There was heat, lust, want behind the single word. Sam shifted again, his lips pressing to the tendon on Dean’s neck and tongue licking him there. Wet and messily. The thigh between Dean’s legs shifted and pressed up on his groin.

Dean hissed now, his body reacting to the all too familiar touch. Sam licked messily at his neck, dragging his lips higher to the stubbled jaw and mouthing there. Dean closed his eyes as Sam started making soft, little, pleased noises in the back of his throat.

“Sam.” He tried half heartedly. He grabbed his brother’s shoulder trying to stop him but all it got him was another of those sleepy sounds and then Sam’s lips on his. His brother’s big hand curled around his pecs, fingers scratching lightly through his tee and Sam’s tongue pushed between his lips. 

He could stop him, of course he could. Sam wasn’t using any force. He was rather applying the octopus technique. To wrap himself around as tightly as possible and hold. He used to do the same thing when he was little and absolutely adamant that he wouldn’t let Dean go.

But he wasn’t a child any more and this wasn’t as innocent. Dean could feel that Sam was half hard against his hip, undulating his hips just a little, rubbing himself sleepily over Dean. He kissed Dean messily, still more than half asleep. His tongue pushed inside and licked and damn, but it was affecting Dean. He could feel himself harden in his jeans, his hips pushing into the warm, soft pressure of Sam’s thigh before he stopped himself. He pulled his mouth away, breaking the sloppy kiss. Not minding the pain in his ribs, Dean untangled himself from Sam and got out of bed as fast and as quietly as he could. He was panting heavily, his cock hard in his pants, a sickness in his stomach. He stood a foot from the bed, watching as Sam moved restlessly, seeking him and then settled with a frown on his face and small, distressed sound.

Wiping his lips with the back of his hand, Dean stumbled out of the bedroom needing to get away from Sam for a moment. Away from the way his own body betrayed him.

TBC


	16. Chapter 16

MEOW!

Dean reared back. 

Jesus Christ. That could have shattered eardrums.

Dean stared at the almost white, huge cat that appeared out of nowhere. What the hell was a cat doing here, anyway?

“Uhm… nice cat?” He tried, but the feline just stared at him unblinking.

MEOW! The sharp, white teeth glinted in the pink mouth. It wasn’t a cat. It was a freakin’ alligator. 

Another ear piercing scream. Jesus. Whoever said that cats were supposed to be quiet animals should reevaluate.

He stared at the cat, his back firmly pressed to the door.

The cat stared back. Not blinking.

Dean licked his lips.

“Christo!” he whispered. Because that? Was not normal.

MEOW!!!!

“What the hell is going on here?” John Winchester rounded the corner and froze. He clamped his jaws tightly together because the sight off his son being bullied into a corner by a fucking housecat was too funny for words.

“Quick Dad. Grab holy water. I think it’s possessed!” Dean whispered eyeing the cat dubiously.

The cat hissed.

The corners of John’s mouth twitched, escaping his control. Ever since Dean was a little kid, cats had the strangest reaction to him. They hissed and snarled but kept following him around.

“You pour anything that’s even remotely wet on T and you can say goodbye to at least a pint of blood. She does not like to get wet,” came the feminine voice from behind John. 

Sarah wasn’t even bothering to hide her amusement. Dean noticed her dishelmed hair and swollen, pink lips. He felt torn between the need to make some lewd remark and unease. He knew his father had sex. They were both doing a very stressful, dangerous job and a man needed to unwind from time to time or else go insane. But he never actually had to interact with someone his Dad slept with. And judging from the pleased with herself aura Sarah kept exuding, it happened more than once. 

He watched Sarah take the resisting cat into her arms and pet it even through the loud and annoyed grumbling. It was a miracle the cat didn’t try to get a piece of her. Despite it’s threatening, it never actually tried to do anything to Sarah. Dean would never, ever understand cats. For all he knew, they were aliens from another planet. Aliens that, for some reason, hated his guts, too.

And then he remembered.

“Hey!” he called to Sarah, for some reason unwilling to use her name. “You drugged me!” He accused, all indignation and outrage.

“Don’t look at me. Your father told me to.” She deftly washed her hands from the argument. 

She carried the still annoyed cat out of the room, leaving John and Dean alone for the first time since the hospital.

“You needed the rest, and knowing you, you wouldn’t have taken any pills voluntarily.” John said calmly. And really, Dean wasn’t so pissed anymore because he did feel better.

“Maybe.” Dean was still hesitant to admit it out loud.

“I’m hungry.” Dean stated as he pushed himself away from the door.

“I can imagine.” Chuckled John. “Come on, I bought some Chinese; it’s still warm.”

They settled in the kitchen, the expensive equipment making them both uneasy. They were rather used to ratty old furniture that even the red cross wouldn’t take and tiny cramped spaces. This kitchen was huge, the fridge was bigger than most closets Dean had ever seen. And it was completely empty except what John brought. It was eerie to watch as the older Winchester opened the fridge, rummaged through some IV bags and, (was that a blood bag?) and pull out a beer and a soda.

“Dad!” Dean all but whined. He wanted beer.

“Not with the painkillers.” John said calmly and pushed the can towards his battered and pouting son.

He grumbled a bit, but took the can and popped it open. 

They ate from the cardboard boxes with plastic forks, because John couldn’t find any utensils in the gleaming kitchen.

Dean finished the last of his rice and whatever else there was. He was way too hungry to pay attention to what he was actually eating. Dean didn’t even realize just how famished he was until he started eating. He pushed the last box away, eying John’s half finished meal and the way his dad was playing with it.

“You going to eat it or maul it to death?” He asked, licking his lips. He would definitely do with a second helping.

John blinked and looked down at the food. He wasn’t really feeling hungry.

“You want it?” He asked.

Dean smiled, wide and true.

“Yeah.”

Dean grabbed the boxes and dug in.

* * *

“Where is Sarah?” Dean asked, noticing that he hadn’t actually heard or seen the woman in some time. 

He stretched easily on the couch, letting his socked feet rest on the low coffee table and watched his father going through the duffel bags lying in the corners, checking supplies.

“She has classes today, and she needed to take the cat home.”

“Classes?” Dean stopped at that word. It was always strange to hear his father say something this... ordinary.

“Yeah. She is a student on the local University. She has a lecture or something.”

Dean just stared at John. Did he even realize how strange he was behaving?

“So she took my truck. She’ll be back in a few hours.” John finished, frowning at something in the bag.

Dean just stared, his mouth slightly agape.

“You gave her your truck?”

“Yeah. How else she was going to get back to her apartment? Sam brought her here yesterday, and taking a cab would cost a fortune. 

“So you gave her the truck.” Dean repeated dumbly. “But... you never gave me your truck! Or Sam!” The last part was almost a squeak.

“I really don’t understand what it’s all about Dean. It’s just a car.” 

The younger Winchester just shook his head. Yeah. Just a car. Dean stopped talking and just watched his father for a while, took in the jerky, a little angry movements and the complete focus he gave to the duffels. 

“Everything okay?” Asked Dean when he caught John looking at the door to the bedroom. Again. A familiar, sad frown on his face.

John didn’t really look good. He just kept glancing in the direction of the bedroom, where Sam, still connected to the IV, slept.

The silence stretched for so long Dean no longer expected an answer, when John spoke.

“He said it was my fault.” John’s eyes were unmoving and focused over Dean’s shoulder. “Said that the man that set the trap might have twisted him, but it was me who made it possible.” He spoke slowly, carefully, as if he couldn’t really understand the words himself. “Because I taught him to kill.”

“That’s bullshit.” Dean, as usual, jumped to defend his father. “Sammy is angry and hurt right now. So he lashes out. That’s that. Just lashing out.”

John grinned, but it was a sad, twisted version of a smile. A painfully familiar one too. Dean saw it too many times, looking into a mirror.

“But he is right, you know. I did teach you to kill.”

“Yeah, bad things! Supernatural things! Not people!” Dean objected strongly.

“A kill is a kill, Dean. In the end, it doesn’t matter what you kill.”

“That’s not true.”

“Is it, Dean?” This time John looked at him. “Would you be capable of killing a human? Would you be able to pull the trigger?”

This time Dean didn’t answered. If Dad’s or Sam’s life depended on it? There was nothing to say, not really. If it was a matter of protecting himself or his family, he would kill. There was no question about it. And if he was honest with himself, it would have been easy. No second thoughts.

John just gave a ‘there you are’ sort of snort and stood up.

Dean watched him pace the room and stare at the closed bedroom door. His father was in pain and it unnerved Dean.

“He lashes out... Sam... Because he thinks you hate him, Dad. So he strikes out first. He is too afraid of actually hearing you say that.” Dean said, his voice tight and clipped. He hated talking about it, the reason for the conflict still all too fresh in his mind.

“What?” John all but gasped. “But... I love him! He’s my son!”

Dean looked away, the muscle in his jaw working.

“You could have told him that. All he knows is that you told him to go and never come back. And some anal good to see you, won’t fix that sir.”

“I just wish he would let go, for once. He always clings to everything for so damn long.” John whispered rubbing his face. Tired. Weary.

Dean laughed out loud, mirthless and bitter.

“What did you expect, Dad? He turned into you.”

John flinched. From the words, or the horrible laugh, Dean didn’t know.

“When was the last time you let go of something? Look at where we are now, at who we are. Warriors. Hunters. It’s a result of your quest. Different men would have let go, found another woman, gave his son’s a mother. But not you.” Dean wasn’t accusing his father, there was no anger in his words, not like Sam. But maybe for the first time in his life he did realize that their father sacrificed him and Sam, their lives, for this quest.

“Dean...” John started but Dean raised his hands, palms out in surrender.

“I’m just saying. Once Sam makes up his mind he is as hard to convince otherwise as you are, sir.”

John sighed.

“I just wish that Sam and I.… that we would stopped fighting for once, you know?”

“Then talk to him. Have a chick-flick moment. Bawl like babies. Clear the air.” Dean proposed with a smirk, but he was serious.

John smiled, a slow, reluctant smile.

“Yeah. Only it seems that Sammy and I can’t stand still long enough to listen when we’re together. And it’s not just right now. I honestly can’t remember the last time we talked. Really talked.” 

“I think he was four year’s old and wanted to know why animals have four legs. Not six.” 

John snorted. “Yes, and who was it that gave him the idea in the first place? Jesus. He wouldn’t let go of the subject for a solid week.” It was a bittersweet memory. John enjoyed remembering how it felt when Sam still trusted him, still came to him. Bitter, because it was so damn long ago. 

Dean raised his hand to rub at his neck, an unconscious gesture that betrayed his confusion and unease with talking about such emotional things.

“If you can’t talk, then just give him the journal. The one you gave me to read. He just...” Dean hesitated. “He just doesn’t understand you, sir. That’s all.”

John roamed the room, mostly because he preferred thinking on his feet and partly because he felt a little hurt, angry even, that Dean knew Sammy so well, so much better than John. And it was his son. It spoke more clearly of the rift between him and his youngest than anything else.

“I don’t know. It’s... personal.”

Dean pressed his lips together.

“You gave it to me.”

“Well, you needed to know and...” John stopped abruptly.

“And what?” Dean pushed, sensing something important.

“You don’t judge me. You never did. And Sam... you know.”

Dean licked his lips. He hated to admit it but Sam was slowly rubbing off on him. He will start wearing pink underwear next.

“Yes. Sam judges you, but he also judges me. He questions our decisions. He... it stops us from crossing the line. It always did. Remember Clive Falls? And the werewolf?” 

_Although none of them were hurt, the hunt went horribly wrong. They managed to get the werewolf but not before it got to some campers. So, after disposing of the creature, they had to find the victims and call the cops to take the bodies away._

_Sammy was taking point. Surprisingly, it was the youngest Winchester that showed exceptional talents in tracking. It didn’t really take long to find the campground and three shredded tents. First three bodies, dragged outside, were mauled beyond recognition. They were the first thing they saw upon entering the clearing. Two males and a young female. All dead. Not five minutes later they found an older pair, probably married, still together in the destroyed tent._

_It was Sam, actually, that found the other one. A young woman, maybe twenty two years old, her chest and shoulder tore open. She was bleeding horribly but she was alive. And aware. John knew, that instant, that it was the worst possible scenario that it was Sam who found her. His youngest was almost sixteen then. Almost as tall as him now, with muscle mass not much different from his either. He could easily pass for a much older boy if need be._

_“Dad!” John heard Dean call out and turned to see Sam kneeling over the injured woman, talking softly to her and pulling the ragged remnants of her clothing away from the wounds to examine the damage. John cursed under his breath. Why it always had to be Sam, the boy never knew how to distance himself. Not like Dean could._

_Sam was always trying to save them. John watched as Sam tried to cover the bleeding bite marks, trying to stop the bleeding and cursed again._

_“I need a first aid kit!” Sam called, his voice breathy and a little panicked. He was just a boy, a sixteen year old boy who was holding somebody’s life in his hands._

_Dean made a move to shrug off his backpack but John shook his head, stopping him. He watched as his older son’s eyes widened and then his face settled into an impassive mask. He didn’t agree with what John intended to do, but didn’t try to step in._

_John pulled a smaller gun out of his waistband and reloaded it with silver bullets. He would make it quick and painless at least. John could tell that Dean didn’t approve, that he just itched to stop him, but in the end his eldest son always trusted John’s judgment. Never questioned it._

_“What the hell is taking you so long!” Sam snarled, shrugging off his own shirt, to protect the woman from the cold, mountain air._

_He wanted to say something more, but stopped when he noticed the berretta in his father’s hand. He froze for a second, his hands tightening protectively around the woman and then he was on his feet and right in John’s face. It always surprised him that Sam could and would challenge his authority like this. By getting in his face, unconsciously using his height as a factor, forcing John to look up at him. Which was annoying, really, to have to look up at your sixteen year old son._

_“You can’t do this!” It was hissed, so that the woman wouldn’t hear._

_Beside them, Dean shifted nervously._

_“Sammy.” John tried to be patient. “She can’t be helped. She was bitten. By the next full moon she’ll be the same creature we just hunted down.”_

_Sam just vibrated with tension, his fists curled into fists at his sides and lips curled into a sneer._

_“So what. You gonna whack her right here and right now? She is a human!” His voice quivered._

_“I know it’s hard to understand, but she is not a human any more. In a month, she is going to start her own killing spree!” John started loosing control, his voice an angry hiss. It wasn’t the best option, but it was the only one they had._

_“How do you know, sir? Are you perfectly, one hundred percent sure that every one, every single one bitten by a werewolf turns into one? Are you?”_

_“No.” He stared into his son’s eyes. Willing him to understand, to fucking trust him once in a while. “But I am not going to take the chance that after we leave this place, she is going to turn into a werewolf too. Every one that would die at her hands would be ours, my responsibility. Are you willing to risk it?”_

_Sam’s eyes never turned away from him, he kept his body still, barely an inch from John’s trying to force the older Winchester into backing up._

_“You kill her today, Dad, and you become what you hunt.” Sam said very slowly, very seriously, his eyes still firmly holding John’s gaze. “You choose that tonight...” Sam looked down at the gun still in John’s hands. “And you loose that little part that sets you apart from the dark things you kill. You loose your humanity.” There was more sadness than actual anger in Sam’s voice and it was something odd and new. John wasn’t used to his youngest speaking to him. Just yelling and screaming._

_“By the next full moon she will no longer be a human, Sammy.” John said gently, but sure. He was a true Winchester. Once he made up his mind it wasn’t easy to convince him to change it._

_Sam didn’t move, his gaze locked into his father’s eyes. John had a feeling that Sammy wouldn’t move. No matter what, Sam would never betray his beliefs. Never back down._

_“You can’t be sure. Can’t be sure she will turn.”_

_They both were aware of Dean shifting uncomfortably beside them, but neither was willing to break the staring contest between them, like a pair of dogs that fought for dominance._

_“Then we come back in twenty eight days and finish the thing then.” Dean’s voice was so reasonable and close, it made them both jump a little. Sam’s eyes flicked to his brother’s. Gratitude and something else, something more, shining in them. Then Sam looked back to John with an obvious question._

_John hated that, hated that Dean actually had a good idea. But also was grateful that he and Sam wouldn’t need to fight about this any more. And when they came back and Sammy saw what has became of the woman, he wouldn’t question John any more._

_“Fine. We take her to hospital now and then come back.”_

_Sam gave him a nod and came back to the woman, trying to assess her injuries a little better. John could hear Dean exhale loudly and sag a little with a breathless “Jesus” on his lips._

_They came back twenty eight day’s later. Armed to the teeth they parked the Impala across the street from the woman’s house. After the sun set and the moon rose to it’s whole full glory, Sam took out his cell phone and dialed the woman. If she turned, she wouldn’t answer the phone._

_John could only stare with a sense of sick horror as Sam spoke to the soft, female voice of the other side of the line. He watched, as the lights in the sitting room were turned on and as the same woman they found in the woods, still in bandages and moving slowly appeared in the window. John couldn’t hear what Sam said, some inane chit-chat. The only thing John was aware of was that woman, going out on the balcony and leaning on the railing, staring at the sky and still talking to the phone. She still hurt, obviously, but she was also very human. Almost too much._

_He stumbled out of the car and retched painfully in the bushes nearby. The very thought that he could have taken an innocent woman’s life making him sick._

_When he returned to the car, Sam wasn’t talking any more. John expected ‘I told you so’ or something like that, but he got something else. In his soft, considerate, almost sad tone, Sam said:_

_“To every disease, to every single virus in this world, there is someone naturally immune to it. The were sickness is transmitted by biting, it would only make sense that there were people immune to it.”_

After that John never took for granted that every one bitten by a werewolf was going to turn into one.

 

“I will think about giving Sam the journal. But... not now. He’s not ready.” Dean nodded and stood up.

“I should check up on him.”

* * *

Dean entered the room quietly, hoping to find Sam still sleeping. No such luck. His brother, hair all over the place, was sitting on the bed and sluggishly trying to take the needle out of his arm without hurting himself. His fingers were clumsy, and eyes half closed. He looked groggy and very tired. But it was still better than the cold anger from before. This was more human. 

Now, when Dean looked at his brother, he saw the exhaustion that Sarah talked about. He was fragile somehow. There were deep, dark shadows under his eyes and his fingers seemed clumsy, shaking a little. 

“Wait, Sam. I’ll do it.” He stood in front of his brother and reached for his forearm. Sammy’s eyes were diverted, not looking up, but he stilled and didn’t try to fight Dean. Just sat there, quietly, still, enveloped in an aura if despair and confusion. The anger, the rage that seemed to drive him before now nowhere to be seen.

Dean unhooked the IV, but left the needle. He found the plastic cap and secured it, making sure the tape held. 

“We will need to give you some more fluids, so don’t try to take it out yet, okay?” Dean said softly, wishing he could just hold his brother and take all the pain away. But Sammy wasn’t four any more and his world couldn’t be righted by a hug and a kiss. 

“I want to take a shower.” Sam whispered, his head hanging low and voice so unsure it twisted Dean’s heart into a painful knot.

“I’ll wrap it up, so it doesn’t get wet.”

He worked quietly, if a bit slowly. Dean relished the contact, however brief. 

The room was quiet, the only sounds were their slow breathing and the gentle creaking of the foil Dean wrapped around Sam’s arm. Throughout this, his brother didn’t say a word. Didn’t move a muscle. 

“Sam.” Dean spoke gently, after he finished. “Are you okay?” He realized it was probably a stupid question, but he was as much at a loss as Sam. What did one say to the brother they fucked for over a weak every single night? To a brother that killed, and killed and probably fucking tortured because a damn curse forced him to obey orders of a lunatic?

Sam gave out a strange, painful sound full of ragged edges and sharp corners. 

“I don’t even know how to respond to it. Jesus, Dean...” Sam’s arms shook and Dean was terrified there, for a moment, that Sam was actually going to cry. For all his accusations that Sam was a woman, he actually saw his brother cry only twice in the last ten years. 

Dean sat down on the bed, beside Sam. His hands fluttered, unsure for a moment and then with a soft curse he pulled Sam into his arms. It always surprised him, how much bigger Sam actually was. How wide and strong his shoulders were. How fucking terrifying Sam could be if he wanted to. 

Sam didn’t cry though. He shuddered gently, his body fighting the exhaustion and adrenaline high still. One choked inhale, and then a long, long silence. The taller man didn’t try to pull away, but stayed unmoving, not trying to come any closer either. 

“You can let go, Sam. You are safe now. I got you, little brother.” Dean whispered, pulling Sam forcefully closer, making him bury his head in Dean’s shoulder. So close Dean could feel the moist, hot pants against his skin and it sent shivers down his back.

Dean swallowed hard, feeling his body react to the closeness of his brother. It both sickened him, that he reacted sexually to Sam, and excited him. Some part of him saw the undeniable logic in this. In them, together. He could never find another lover, another soul that would know him so well, understand so completely. 

“Dean.” Sam whispered against his skin and Dean barely restrained a moan as he felt the wet, soft lips pressing into his neck. It was too deliberate to be an accident, too soft to be a kiss. So he just froze, his arms still around his brother.

Sam shifted, his hands clenching in Dean’s shirt and a soft sound escaped him. He pressed his lips in a slow drag up over Dean’s neck, until he found the fleshy lobe and closed his teeth around it. Sam needed this, needed his brother, his lover. Needed the contact, the only reassurance he could believe that things indeed will be okay. 

“Please.” He whispered, his lips against the rough stubble, scrapping against the brittle hair. “Please...” He hated begging, but there wasn’t much pride left in him. There wasn’t much of anything. He felt hollow, used, violated on the most intimate level. Someone else’s will forced him to commit crimes that went against everything he believed in. He needed something, someone to fill that emptiness inside him, to take away the anger and pain. And he could think only of one person that could give it to him. Dean. His brother. The one he loved for most of his life, the one he thought he would never have.

But he was wrong. Dean came to him, willing and wanting. It was beautiful. It was everything Sam wished it to be and so, so much more. 

His hands slid to his brother’s head and tilted it. Sam pressed his lips to the wide, soft ones of his brother, his lover, and kissed him slowly. Gently. Trying to fill himself with the taste of his lover, to banish the memories that hovered on the edge of his consciousness. 

But something was wrong. He could feel Dean’s body responding to him, could feel the hard bulge in his jeans, pressing into his thigh, could hear the labored breathing. Yet Dean didn’t answer the kiss. He didn’t stop it, but neither did he reciprocate it. 

“Dean?” Sam asked hesitantly, a sudden feeling of fear fluttering inside.

Dean turned his eyes away. It was never a good sign, when his brother avoided his gaze. Then Sam felt the hands that were holding him just a moment ago, push him away. Gently, but it didn’t really matter. That single gesture, the way Dean leaned back, away from him, his hands pushing at Sam’s arms to get him to move back... it hurt so much more than a vicious blow to the gut ever could. 

He stared, mutely at Dean’s shielded face, a sense of horrible dread filling him. How could he push Sam away? Didn’t he realize that he was the single thing that kept Sam going? That he was the only reason Sam held on for so long?

“I’m sorry, Sam. We... we just can’t okay? It’s not a good time. With Dad and everything.” Dean was becoming more uncomfortable by every minute, every word seemed to be more choked out the then one before. “Besides you’re not okay, and...”

Sam expected pain, expected disbelief and fucking grief. He felt nothing. No anger, no pain. He stared at his brother’s face, at the way his jaw worked soundlessly and his eyes slid away from him every time Sam tried to establish eye contact. Dean was lying. Or hiding something. 

Numb and frozen like the nothingness he felt inside, Sam just nodded.

“I’m going to take a shower.” He stood up and went to the bathroom, closing the door very softly behind him. 

He could still remember how willing Dean was before. How his body reacted to every single touch, to every single thing he did with it. Dean needed him, wanted him. There was no imagination on Sam’s part. He remember how hard Dean was every time he came to his brother. How already close to the edge. It was so easy to bring him over the edge. Just a touch, a fist around Dean’s cock and he was coming, spurting come and begging for more. 

Sam couldn’t reconcile his passionate lover from two night ago and this, cold and distant man that could simply push him away when he needed the closeness so damn much. And he has begged. Sam never begged. Yet Dean refused. And he didn’t even tell the truth. He lied. Straight to Sam’s face. 

Sam didn’t even remember when he took the rest of his clothes off. Still in a kind of shock, he climbed into the tub and turned the water on as hot as he could stand it, relishing the burn and sting that made everything around him fuzzy. His chest felt constricted, each breath an effort. 

The hot water cascaded over his head, flattening his hair, getting into his eyes, stinging along the cuts in his hand. He rested his palms on the wet tile and bowed his head, panting harsh breaths and trying to shut his mind down. But he couldn’t. The only thing that stopped the memories from overwhelming him, stopped the guilt and disgust, was Dean. His nearness, the fact that after so many years, something that he always thought was unattainable, became real. Dean as his lover, full of need and want. Reacting to him like no other lover ever did. 

But not now. Today, Dean pushed him away, cold and distant. As if he was as disgusted with Sam as Sam was with himself. It wasn’t fair. He didn’t fucking deserve it. To have something warm and beautiful and then have it ripped away. First Jessica. A woman he loved, a woman he could spend the rest of his life with. Taken away by a demon. Dean, a partner, a brother, a lover he found and lost in the space of two fucking weeks. It just wasn’t fair. That he kept losing everything he fucking wanted in his life. Not fair. He didn’t deserve it. No one deserved it!

His panted breaths turned to choking sobs, the water washed away burning, salty tears and Sam curled his hands into fists. 

It wasn’t fair!

He started hitting the wall with his fist. Both of them, spitting his knuckles and splashing blood on himself, on the shower curtain. The water swirled hot and pink down the drain and still he kept hitting until the pain turned his hands numb and the tile gave up under the assault, splitting and exploding all over him. The sharp, hard fragments cutting into his hands, his arms and falling with a tiny clink-clank sound into the tub. Giving voice to a ragged wail, he started kicking the wall too, his hands no longer listening to the commands. Everything was pink-red, his vision blurry. His knee split, blood and flesh splattering the wall and the pain shot up forcing more tears from his eyes. he didn’t stop though.

There was too much blood. Always blood. All around him, over him, on his hands. Too much blood.

He kept hitting, the pain a welcome punishment until he felt harsh, strong hands grabbing him and pulling him out of the shower along with all the blood and shower curtain.

“Stop it! Sammy! Stop it!” 

He struggled weakly at the strong, vaguely familiar grip.

“Oh, Jesus. Please, Sammy, please stop. Please.” There was so much pleading and pain the voice, it broke through to him and Sam stilled. His arms fell limply and he let himself be enveloped in the strong, familiar arms. He inhaled the masculine, soothing scent and closed his eyes, feeling more tears falling.

“I’m so sorry, Sam. So sorry.” His father whispered against his wet hair. In that moment, Sam felt like a six year old child that still believed that a hug from his father would make everything okay, that ‘I’m sorry’ was enough to fix everything.

“We are going to pull though. We are Winchesters. Nothing can break us.” John whispered against Sam’s skin, pressing him as close to himself as he could, feeling how badly Sam was shivering. 

“I can’t... I can’t.” He sobbed into his father’s chest. Not caring, for once, about all the differences between them.

John hugged him tighter.

“Yes, you can. You are not alone. You have me and Dean. We are not going to leave. We are with you, every step of the way. I promise.” 

Sam didn’t answer. He just went limp in his father’s arms. Asleep or unconscious, John didn’t know. 

He sat up, trying to shift Sam into a position that would let him lift his son up and carry him to the bedroom again. There was so much blood. Sammy’s hands were bloody, knuckles split right to the bone, long, jagged scrapes along his fingers and the top of his hand. His right knee was already swollen, the flesh turning purple and bleeding purposefully from multiple small breaks. John feared it might be broken, crushed even judging by the sight of the shower wall. The tile was broken and cracked in may places, a silent testimony to the force of the blows. The pain Sam was in. 

Everything was pink, and the scent of copper was strong in the air. It was his son’s blood. It made John gag. He looked back over his shoulder, at Dean hovering at the entrance. His face was wet with tears John wasn’t sure Dean even knew he was shedding. 

John didn’t know what happened between Sam and Dean, but whatever it was, obviously pushed Sam in the wrong direction. Judging from Dean’s face he knew that all too well. 

* * *

Sarah was not surprised to see a man sitting in her kitchen, drinking a cup of coffee, his feet propped up on the other chair. She could sense him a mile away.

“Long time no see.” He said slowly turning around. “What’s your name this time around. Sarah? Yes. Sarah Andrews. Such a common name for someone as extraordinary as you.”

He looked up, his eyes gleaming yellow.

“Can’t say I missed you.” She said evenly, circling around him to put her groceries away. She noticed the way T sat, fur ruffled, in the corridor and kept a wary eye on the man. The cat hissed quietly from time to time. The cat knew perfectly well just what was inside that man. 

“Still so sure of yourself…” The demon made a tsk sound, and leaned back to take a drink from its cup.

“And you are still so pathetically weak and fragile.” She snarled in return, dumping the bag on the counter and turning to lean back against it. She wasn’t afraid of him. He couldn’t hurt her.

The door to every single cupboard opened and slammed closed suddenly. The cat jumped at the noise but didn’t leave its chosen post.

“Do you really think I couldn’t hurt you if I wanted to?” It asked, leaning back in the chair, a slight sneer on its face.

She pulled an apple from the bag and washed it under the faucet. Focusing on his energy was so easy. Paradoxically, the stronger the demon, the easier it was for her to kill him. The life force was much more pronounced then. 

She turned around casually, biting into the apple and watched him. The man’s hands started to shake and his eyes turned glassy and confused as a tiny, black tendrils started to leave his body through the pores of his skin and dissipate in the air. 

“What makes you think I can’t kill you?” She asked when she saw it in the demon‘s eyes when he understood what she was doing. The host would remain untouched. Only the demon would die.

But he was old, and strong and it wasn’t the first time the demon’s life was threatened. He moved. Fast and quiet. In a blink of an eye he was in front of her. One hand on the counter, one flat on her stomach, his face so close she could smell the coffee on his breath.

“But you can’t.” He hissed, pressing his palm into her stomach until she felt what he felt. Her eyes widened and she gasped. “Because if you use enough power to kill me, you might just kill something, someone else.”

She couldn’t be sure. He could be lying. Her using her powers could be perfectly safe. But she wasn’t sure he was lying either. She could take a risk, take this chance. But what if she was wrong?

“Can you really risk it?” He said, a tone of smugness clear in his voice. “All those lifetimes, all the times you were reborn. All those men you knew, was married to. You never once, never in the thousandth times you lived, had a child.”

She didn’t fully grasp what it meant, but now that she showed it to her she could feel it. Feel the tiny, glittering spark of new energy, new life force inside her. It was so small, so tiny she could have mistaken it for a plant.

She stopped, and the demon smiled, wide and almost honest.

“It always, always surprises me how predictable humans are. That child is barely a day old, just a few cells yet, and you already are backing down.” It smirked.

“Just for now.” She met his eyes. She always did.

“Funny, that you are never as pretty as you were the first time. You must miss it terribly. Once a beautiful butterfly, now a fat cow.” His yellow eyes glowed with mirth at the possibility of hurting her. 

“Funny how predictable you are.” She gave back as hard. That was an age old dance, between them, “and how low in the hierarchy now. As I recall you used to be quite high in the ladder. But now, you are almost a no one.” 

She could see she hit a mark when his eyes flared. She could sense his power gathering.

“You want to hurt me?” She whispered softly. “You have to kill me on the first try because if I live, I will tear you apart.” And she would. Some things never change. Under that calm and friendly exterior was a vicious, fierce soul that would gloat in revenge. Like she once did.

“Oh, I don’t want to hurt you.” The demon leaned forward, reaching to touch her face but she jerked her head away. “You were once our beloved. Come back.” He murmured. “And we will take care of this child, no matter what it turns out to be. You know you can’t trust the other side. They could judge the unborn child, like they judged... him. Just because he loved you.” He murmured softly, enticingly. “I will protect you, and the baby from everybody.”

“Let bygones be bygones. I am not coming back. You think you can use me again, think about what happened the last time. Do you miss all those brothers and sisters you lost?”

The demon looked up, mock-wondering.

“Uhm… no. Not at all.” He leaned towards her again. “Remember what I said to you, so long ago? Those who fear darkness, have never seen what light can do. But you have seen both sides of the coin by now. Yet you choose to live in between.”

“I don’t choose a thing. I can trust only one person. Myself. The rest of you? You can go and fuck yourself. Now go away before I loose my patience.” She growled.

“Oh and what will you do?” It asked, rolling its yellow eyes.

“You host. It’s a lot easier than killing a demon.” She answered evenly.

The demon laughed but pushed away from the counter, not crowding her any more.

“So you would kill an innocent human? How... evil of you. Just think about it.” The demon mocked.

She didn’t move.

“There is nothing wrong with my survival instinct.”

And she wasn’t kidding. She would have killed the host. Without regret. Without hesitation. 

He just nodded, admitting that she would have killed the body he was using. And it was always such a nuisance to try and find a new one.

The bell rung once. Then twice. 

Sarah knew who was behind the door. She wondered if the demon knew. Her memories about him weren’t as complete as she pretended. She knew who and what he was. She knew that he came to her in every single life to offer something. Money, fame, power, talent, protection. She never agreed, he threatened her but never actually attacked her. Maybe that was the reason she never killed him. 

“Consider my offer. That man you call a lover now, he will try to kill both you and the child he created inside you once he learns just where you came from, darling. And you damn well know that.” He smiled, sauntering towards the corridor. “Don’t even try to deny it. You can’t lie to me. I will know. You tell him you don’t remember. But that’s not exactly true, is it now?” He smirked, so sure, so full of himself. He knew had her. “He might sleep with you, but what would he do if he knew just what you almost did in that hospital?”

Sarah was quiet. Why could demons hurt you so bad? Because there was always more than a grain of truth in every of their lies. A possibility. A real chance that it might actually happen.

“He might take you to bed, but in the end you are supernatural. And John Winchester kills the supernatural.”

The bell rung again, more annoying this time. Longer. 

The demon rolled its eyes and sighed in mock exasperation.

“That man is so annoying. And pushy, and stubborn. Once he sets his teeth into something, he doesn’t let go. No matter who or what he has to sacrifice. A real case of tunnel vision.”

With the last smirk in her direction he pushed himself away from the wall he was leaning on and went to the door. He opened it wide and smiled at the bearded man in front of him.

“Good day to you, sir.” He said cheerfully and pushed past John, disappearing down the stairway.

John frowned, a strange shiver running down his spine, and entered the apartment carefully.

“Sarah?” He called. He knew she was there, he saw his truck parked outside.

“In here.” She called from the kitchen.

She was standing, leaning on the counter, staring at a half eaten apple.

“Who was that?” John asked sensing something wrong, a kind of tension emanating from her.

The white cat jumped onto the counter and stretched its nose towards her, the whiskers furling outwards, towards Sarah and the tiny nose moving as the cat scented Sarah. The woman reached for the cat and petted it for a long moment before answering, never once looking at John.

“No one. It was no one.”

She threw the apple out, not hungry any more.

“So what brings you here? I said I would come by later.”

John frowned at her, but didn’t press.

“It’s Sam. He’s in… a bad shape. I need some stuff from my truck.”

* * *

Dean sat on the edge of the bed, bandage hanging limply from his hands. He stared at the limp, unconscious form of his brother. He was thankful for that. Grateful that Sam didn’t look at him with those hollow, hurt eyes. With the betrayal so painful it made something inside Dean ache. 

He pressed one of his hands to his mouth, still too shocked by what Sam had done to completely comprehend exactly what had happened. He never once expected such a reaction. For all his calling Sam a woman or a baby, he was used to his brother always surviving, always handling whatever happened. He might be angry and broody, but he was never this... broken. This vulnerable. It unnerved him, to see Sammy so fragile, so close to complete and total breakdown. It wasn’t even the fact that he hurt himself in the shower. That might have been explained by an outburst of anger or anything. But his dad looking at him and saying that from now on Sam had to be on suicide watch tore something in Dean. He wasn’t used to this. To Sam so sensitive to anything Dean said or did. Even as small baby Sam was very strong, resilient. He barely ever cried, rarely asked for anything. And this broken and battered shell wasn’t his brother. Wasn’t the man he grew close to again in the months they spent together on the road. It wasn’t even the dark entity that came to his room for over a week. That man was strong, dangerous, dark and aggressively sensual. But deep down, where it mattered it was still Sam. Dean saw it, in the way his brother was always so careful with his strength around Dean. He could have broken Dean, bend him to his will, but Sam didn’t. Even under the influence of the curse, he took care not to hurt Dean.

And now he was lying broken and bloody among the equally broken things in the destroyed room. He and Dad cleaned it up a bit, but it was just superficial. Just like Sam. On the outside he looked okay, still healthy and strong. But on the inside... Dean had no idea what was going on inside his brother.

John left to find Sarah and take the stolen prescription pad from the truck. They needed sedatives for Sam, that was for sure. At least for a few days until the first shock wore off and Sam regained some kind of balance. At least, that was what they both believed in. None of them even considered that Sam might not get over this.

Dean sighed and took one of his brother’s hands into his own to check on the cuts. The rule was that if the cuts would still be bleeding, Dean would bandage them. If they stopped by now he would leave them be. The best thing for the wounds to heal quickly would be fresh air now. Not another layer of bandages.

Dean unwrapped the foil and took out the IV needle. Because Sam went berserk in the shower, the needle had cut through the vein causing a huge bruise to appear just under the skin. Dean knew it would take weeks for it to fade completely. They would need to find another place for the IV. With the loss of blood and exertion, not mentioning the obviously not so good mental state, Dean didn’t expect Sam to have any kind of appetite. 

He ran the pads of his fingers over the clearly visible bruise on the inside of Sam’s elbow. 

It was all his fault. Because he didn’t think, didn’t stop to consider what it would feel like for Sam, when he pushed his brother away. He was selfish, caring about his own insecurities than about his brother. It should be him lying in that bed, bruised and bleeding. Hurting. Not Sam. Not after everything that he suffered the recent weeks. 

“Sam.” He wanted to say something, to apologize, to ask for forgiveness. But he couldn’t. He was never the one to say his feelings out loud.

So he just closed his eyes and wished fervently that it had never happened, that he could just take away all the pain from Sammy. From his brother. From the single person in his life he was responsible for. His family. His little brother, friend and partner. 

His eyes burned, the tears no longer falling. But it didn’t matter. He already cried in front of John. His father didn’t comment, his cheeks were wet as well as he carried Sam to the bedroom.

Dean used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe away the moisture in the corners of his eyes and looked down at the arm he was still holding. He was behaving like a fucking teenage girl.

He froze.

The bruise, the blood gathered just under the skin coloring it red and violet was gone.

Dean blinked and looked again, but the inside of Sam’s elbow was smooth and pale. There was no sign of the bruise, not even the puncture mark the needle had left. Not really believing what he was seeing, Dean turned to the other arm. As if he could somehow forget where the IV was. But the other one was smooth and clear too, besides the cuts lower made by the splintered tile.

He stared not really knowing what was happening, or maybe just denying it when the memory hit.

_Dean’s eyes snapped open. He pushed Sam away, breaking the kiss and stared at the pale chest and three, parallel, jagged wounds that were all too familiar to him._

_Bullet wounds._

_None of them seemed to penetrate the body, each one only grazed the flesh, breaking and burning the skin and muscle underneath. They weren’t very long, each maybe six inches at the most. They weren’t deep enough to cause serious problems either. He breathed out at that, relieved, because he knew what would happen if the wounds were fatal. The demon would keep Sam’s body alive, but the moment they exorcised it, Sam would die._

_The wounds bled lightly, the water flowing over them turned light pink in color. Sam didn’t seem to mind them at all, but Dean couldn’t stand the sight of them._

_“You need to take care of it.” He said hoarsely, still very aware of his hard cock bobbing between his thighs. “They could get infected.”_

_His brother was still, the black eyes liquid and flat, revealing no emotions and the black lines made his face look even paler in the ugly, artificial lightning in the bathroom._

_“Come on.” He tried to pull Sam from the shower, but his brother stayed still not fighting Dean but also not complying._

_“Sam, this water is crap for open wounds. You need to get them dressed up properly.” Dean sighed, anxious to protect at least his brothers body. To make sure Sam could come back to them._

_“There’s no need.” Sam finally said, reaching one of those freakishly long arms to curl around Dean’s neck and pull him forward until his face was just inches from the wounds._

_“Lick it.” The command was soft, almost dream like but the hand curled around his head, the other resting almost gently on Dean’s hip made it clear that it was not a question._

_The older Winchester realized, that in that seedy bar, on that green pool table, Sam asked for permission that Dean gave. There was no going back now, no changing his mind._

_Dean shuddered, but it wasn’t revulsion. It was the onslaught of memories. He remembered, when Sam was still very little and almost innocent, how Dean used to kiss all the scrapes and cuts better, determined to be a mother, father and brother in one. Trying to give Sam a family he so desperately craved even back then. Possessed or not, it was still his brother’s body and he knew its smell, knew how the skin tasted... it was nothing new. So, he leaned down the final inches towards Sam’s pectoral and brushed his lips against the ragged edges of the first wound. Softly. Rumbling something deep in his throat because he remembered that Sammy used to giggle and relax at the low thrum Dean learned to do very early. Maybe it was the vibration, or something else, but it worked on Sammy like a charm. Dean hoped it still did._

_He flicked his tongue over the wound, strangely willing to taste his brother again. It was so long since they were this close, he needed to do it. After a moment he realized the texture under his tongue had changed and he opened his eyes. He couldn’t help the gasp he made at the sight that greeted him._

_The wounds were healing._

_Just inches from his eyes, the skin and muscles knitted together, mended leaving only thin, pink lines that faded in a matter of seconds also, leaving nothing behind. Not even a scar._

At that time he thought that it was whatever the hell was possessing Sam that healed him. But now, staring at the smooth and clean skin where just a moments ago was a horrible bruise, he started thinking something else. Having nothing to loose, just this desire to make things right to fuel him, Dean slid from the bed and kneeled on the floor, his ribs screaming at him in protest. 

He licked his lips, nervous that it was just a coincidence and that this idiocy he was just going to do would not help. That it would just be another empty hope that was crushed by reality. He had too much of them already. But there was nothing he wouldn’t do, wouldn’t risk for his brother. And the guilt he felt was eating him alive, hurting him. He couldn’t stand to look at Sam in this state. So broken. So damn fragile.

He took the hand that was previously bandaged by his father and unwrapped the soiled bandage. The blood was still red and wet on the white cloth, the wounds still bleeding a little, too deep to close properly. Taking a deep breath he pressed his lips to the palm. The smell of antiseptic hit his nose and the heavy taste of blood exploded on his tongue. The jagged edges and irregularities under his tongue felt alien and wrong. In the last week he had tasted and licked almost every inch of his brother’s body. He still remembered the salty yet familiar taste of Sam’s hands when he licked them, sucked at the fingers. When they touched him. Sure and smooth, so damn knowing. Sam played his body like no one before him had.

His eyes tightly closed, and mind filled with fervent wishes, prayers that it worked, that somehow, he could heal his brother. 

“Dean?” The surprised, little shocked gasp of his father jerked him out of his almost trance-like state. He looked up guiltily, aware just how bad it must look for his father. Him, kneeling on the floor, holding Sam’s bleeding hand in both hands, pressing his lips and tongue to the wounds. He could feel the blood smeared around his lips, on his chin and nose. He must look like a vampire for an Ann Rice novel. Except it was not fiction.

“What...” John started, obvious signs of unease in his voice, a little suspicion even and then stopped. His eyes shifted from Dean’s bloodied face to the hand he was still holding like an offering.

The blood was still smeared all over the palm, but where Dean licked it patches of clean, moist skin were peeking through. Smooth skin. Healthy. No cuts and tears in the fragile flesh any more. 

A sharp sound of plastic bottle filled with pills hitting the floor was like a thunder in the suddenly quiet room. They both jumped a little.

John kept shifting his eyes from the hand to Dean still frozen in the same position. John opened his mouth as if to say something but nothing came out. He rubbed his hand over his mouth, closing his eyes for a moment.

“Jesus.” He whispered and turned around, leaving the room.

Dean licked his lips, staring at the now empty door and then back at the healthy hand. He didn’t even think about going after his father. Not now. Not when he had a freaking proof that it worked. That he actually could heal Sam. Frantically he started tugging at the rest of the dressings pulling them away as fast as possible. There were so many of them. But he would take care of every single wound. Because every cut, every scrape, every bruise was his fault. His inability to protect his brother and his idiocy and selfishness. The lack of insight that caused him to push Sam away when his brother needed him the most.

He would make it right. He would. No matter what.

 

TBC


	17. Chapter 17

“Dad?” Dean asked quietly. His father was sitting slumped over the wide kitchen table. He looked old. Tired. His hair was mussed, the beard giving him an even more haggard look. 

John poured himself another shot of whiskey and swallowed the burning liquid in one go. He didn’t move towards Dean. Didn’t turn. Didn’t make any move that would mean he heard Dean. 

Dean watched his father not acknowledge him and felt something heavy and bitter gather in his chest. Disappointment. Fear. Dean’s greatest nightmare was not living up to his father’s expectations. And recently, all he seemed to do, every choice he makes is one more disappointment. One more failure. 

He run his fingers over the smooth surface of the doorframe, seeking something to hold onto, something to keep him grounded. He pressed his forehead against it and closed his eyes. He wanted so desperately to explain, but how could he if even he had no idea what was going on? He felt so damn lost, confused.

He watched his father’s big figure with a longing he hadn’t felt since he was a little boy. He wanted his dad to hold him and tell him that it’s okay, that everything would be okay. But John didn’t. And his words wouldn’t make things okay either. But the foolishness of his desire didn’t make it hurt any less.

“Dad...” He whispered, forehead pressed so hard against the doorframe he could feel grinding against his skull.

For a long time no one said anything The harsh, a little desperate breathing was the only sound in the room.

“I have been hunting the supernatural for most of my life.” John said slowly, carefully, an odd, painful note in his voice. “And now both my sons have become something I can’t understand. Something...” John broke off, but it was too late. Dean already heard the unspoken thing.

‘not normal’

‘supernatural’

John stood up, slowly and quietly. Never once looking at Dean.

“I need to go. Think things through. Make sure to give your brother two of the pills I brought.” John left the more than half full bottle on the table and pulled the coat over his shoulders. “I’ll be back later.”

He brushed by Dean and left the apartment as fast as he could. 

Dean pressed his face against the cold wall again, trying to stop the pleas that almost escaped his lips. He begged too much already.

* * *

Sarah looked up from the book she was pretending to be reading for the last few hours. In truth she was quietly freaking out. In all the times she lived so far, she never once had children. She was sure of it. She always assumed it was the effect of her powers. All she could do was take life, life energy. So it only made sense she was not allowed to create life herself.

Yet here she was, supposedly pregnant. The energy inside her was so very faint, so tiny she really wasn’t sure if she wasn’t imagining it. But the demon came to her. And he wouldn’t have bothered if there wasn’t something for him in this visit. She wondered about the child. Was it human? Was it a hybrid of some kind? Would it have a free will, a choice that she had? Or did the demons learn their mistake? They thought it would be funny to give a power of destruction to a human child and then watch as God’s beloved humans, the ones he gave free will to, used that freedom to destroy themselves. 

It didn’t end quite like they planned. And both sides paid the price.

Now they came again. She got a visit from a demon; it wouldn’t be long before the other side came, too. Someone once told her that those who fear darkness, have never seen what light can do. Truer words were never spoken again. 

Sarah wondered if it was John’s fault somehow. She said she used pills. And that was true. She did. For years now. And here she was. Fucking pregnant and things were becoming a mess pretty damn quickly again. The man she was slowly falling in love with was going to leave her in a few days and probably never look back, the peace she worked for would get ripped away when different sides of the same war would come after her child, should she decide to keep it. 

Sarah was also aware of the familiar presence somewhere near her apartment building. In a way John did seem the stalker type. It kind of got into his habit to hide in the shadows. She wondered if he realized how odd that was. But as long as she could sense him, it was okay. She wondered what might have happened to bring him back so soon. He just left her place, saying that Sam hurt himself. Again. And that he needed to get some serious drugs to keep him calm while his body healed. 

Now, a few hours later he was back again when she would expect him to stay by his son’s side. Yet here he was, hovering in the shadows. Sarah figured he would come to her when he was good and ready and coming out to him would not be a good idea. She wasn’t too calm or feeling too generous at the moment either so maybe it was better this way. 

When the knock finally came, she pushed the cat from her lap and stood up. She had a strange feeling of deja-vu walking the length of he cluttered corridor. She knew who was behind those doors. It was the middle of the night again and it’s been raining for hours. 

When she opened the door, she found John leaning on the doorframe with hands spread wide. His coat was heavy with water and hair sticking out in wet tufts. His eyes were dark, tired and haunted. His beard hid most of his face, but his eyes were enough. Whatever had happened had hurt him. She was surprised by the surge of protective feelings towards him. But not only. She also felt pure feminine attraction as she watched him gather his quite large frame and enter her home. 

He smelled like rain, cigarettes, whisky and man. He didn’t say a word. Just raised one of his cold hands, the fingers rough, small scars sprinkled all over and touched her face. She shivered at the trace of cold wetness. Over her cheek down over her neck. 

They were both still and silent for the longest moment. His finger trailed a wet path along her skin, but Sarah couldn’t tear her eyes away from his eyes. Dark and hooded, pain written clearly across his face. Something happened. Something that shook him to the core.

“John.” It was barely a breath, an exhale of warm breath more than a word but it enough to break the spell of stillness.

He was strong and fierce and all she could do was surrender as John pushed her into the wall and lifted her up. Even through the layers of damp clothing she could feel his muscles working. She was definitely not light. But it didn’t seem to matter at all to him.

John pressed his lips to her neck and bit down. Hard, bruising the delicate skin there. Sarah whimpered and tilted her head back, showing even more of the vulnerable skin, inviting him in.

There were no words, almost no foreplay, just his hands reaching to the stretched waistband of her sweats and pushed. She hissed when his cold, damp skin connected with her ass. He scratched his blunt fingernail over the delicate skin and mouthed on her neck some more, spreading saliva and heat all over her skin.

Sarah barely even noticed her own fingers curling into claws on his shoulders, long nails digging into his flesh even through the clothes. John hissed and let her go, pushing the sweats even more down, past the swell of her hips, until they fell to the floor. 

Like a pair of drunks they stumbled over each other, pulling at clothes and cursing, desperately trying to reach naked skin. He bit down on her naked shoulder, she scratched his back until she felt damp wetness under her fingertips. The pain seemed to liberate something in John. He only arched and pulled her closer, his body heating up. His muscles, powerful and beautiful, worked under the tanned skin as he used his strength to push her where he wanted her. 

They were both naked and he hasn’t even kissed her once. John crowded her, making her back away. His masculinity was overpowering to her, and now when he was naked it only amplified. His chest, very lightly furred, flexed and twitched as he grabbed her when she lost her footing, his neck a strong column of flesh that she couldn’t resist the urge to bite down on. She felt saltines of skin and sweat under her tongue and worried with her teeth until she was sure there would be a huge bruise come tomorrow.

She was wet already, her belly clenching with anticipation. This was gong to be fast and rough, much more than any time before with John. 

They reached the dark bedroom. Her bed was unmade. She didn’t have time to do it today and she was quite messy anyway. She expected being pushed towards the bed so she yelped in surprise when he pushed her against the wall. He crowded close, his whole body pressing at her. His hard, hot chest smashing into her breasts he had such fixation on before, his muscled thighs forcing their way between hers, pushing her off balance. 

Sarah grabbed John’s arms, trying to keep herself from falling. She whimpered again, as his big, callused palms closed over her buttocks and pulled up. Instinctively she closed her legs around him. Before she even had the time to get used to the change in position she heard the round of foil being crunched under his feet and then his cock was invading her. Big and hard, John pushed inside ruthlessly. Too fast for her. She felt all the air leave her lungs and dugs her nails even deeper into his skin. John cursed and the pain seemed to just spur him on. He shifted and she groaned as his cock pushed a little bit deeper and then started moving. His muscles worked, ass and back working to keep her off the ground and drive him inside. 

Jesus, it was too much. It was too much and not enough. It hurt but in a good way. It made her sweat and beg; she didn’t even know for what. 

One of his hands left her already bruised hip and snaked between then. She shivered as she felt him tracing the place where his cock disappeared into her. John pressed his lips against hers, pressing his tongue inside, forcing her to just hold on, to surrender in a way she never thought she would be capable of. It was more of a conquer than a kiss, his tongue staking claim over her and his heavy, hot dick pounding inside her like there was no tomorrow. It was strangely erotic, arousing to be used that way. As an outlet to his emotions, his lust.

She tightened her legs even more, drawing him closer, suddenly in as much of hurry as him.

His fingers moved, hard and rough and found her clit. He pressed his thumb against the slippery flesh and started rubbing. Hard and fast. Too hard. Too fast.

She broke the kiss and arched back. Too much, too much and she was coming. Her muscles clamping down on his cock. John didn’t stop. Didn’t even pause. He kept fucking her against the wall, his cock sliding easily over the abundance of juices and his hands still rubbing her almost cruelly, forcing more and more shudders out of him. 

“Stop, stop.” She panted unable to take any more. “Please, John.” She begged, not really sure what she wanted, not even recognizing the breathy voice that came out of her throat. 

He kissed her again, hard lips, teeth mashing and then let her go. She slid bonelessly down the wall a few inches until John grabbed her again. Slowly he withdrew from her, his cock still burgeoning and hard wrapped in a condom she had no idea when he put on. Sarah considered telling him not to bother with protection but it would be kind of a dead give away. He used condoms ever since that first time. It was raining then, too.

“The bed. Now.” He said, his voice all hoarse gravel and lust.

On wobbly feet she stumbled towards her bed, keeping an eye on John. He stripped the set of his clothing. His shirt that hung around one shoulder and the socks that he still had on. He looked almost menacing naked and dark, his body a perfectly shaped weapon, his cock hard and heavy between his legs, jutting out from the patch of dark, curly hair. 

Without a single word, he approached the bed, gripped her hips and flipped her on her stomach. No questions. No apologies. And damn, but that was making her hot again. She clenched her stomach muscles as she felt him grab her knees roughly and spread them. Sarah pressed her face into the cool pillow, her cheeks burning. 

A long, drawn out moan left both their throats as he entered her again, from behind. She was a little sore already, but still more than slick enough and her muscles kind of pulsed from the last orgasm. 

John pressed into her with his whole body, covering her back. His hands sneaked under her to close over her breasts that he did have a fetish on. And his hips snapped forwards. He was obviously not going to be done any time soon.

* * *

Dean grabbed the more than half full bottle of cheap whiskey and unscrewed the cap. Jesus. How bad were things going to get before they finally started getting better? He couldn’t erase the look of shock and disappointment in John’s eyes. Scrunching his eyes tightly closed, he brought the bottle to his lips and tilted, forcing himself to gulp the fiery liquid without even a break for breath. His throat burned so bad he could almost explain the wetness on his cheeks and his lungs screamed for air but he kept going. Kept swallowing the alcohol in huge, desperate gulps until he could see black spots in front of his eyes. 

His chest tried vainly to expand, whisky choking but he kept swallowing. His ribs screamed from the sudden jerk of his muscles fighting for survival and Dean spluttered, the need for air winning. Whisky sloshed in the bottle, over his chin and burned his eyes, or that was what he told himself. 

He coughed, and it sent more pain up his chest sending him to his knees, nauseous with pain and something else, he just didn’t want to name. It was too much, too fucking much. He just couldn’t deal with Sam out of his mind with grief, with the guilt that threatened to strangle him, the weight on his shoulders. The responsibility that he needed to make it all better somehow. And he can’t. He is just a fucking failure, keeps destroying everything he touches. He wished he never came back for Sam, that he left him in Stanford to lead his dream life with his beautiful girl.

Girl that died and started haunting Dean in his dreams and in reality. 

He slid to his knees and looked at the barely two inches of alcohol left in the bottle. He raised it to his lips and quickly drank down the rest of the amber liquid. He felt nauseous and hot, whisky hitting him much stronger than usual. He threw the bottle away with a slurred curse. It wasn’t fucking fair. It was way too damn much for him to endure alone. As he watched the bottle shatter, the glass spilling everywhere his vision turned black and he toppled forward, passing out on the kitchen floor.

* * *

When Dean opened his eyes he was lying on a patch of damp grass. 

“What the fuck...” He started, pushing himself off the damp ground. 

The second thing that set off his alarm bells was the lack of pain. His ribs didn’t scream bloody murder at him. He looked up and cursed to high heaven.

The warehouse. The fucking, god damned, son of a bitch warehouse where Sam got possessed. 

He was dreaming again. 

Dean got up and brushed most of the dirt from his jeans. He just knew that the moment he looked around he would see her. And damn, but he had had enough to deal with today. He did not need Jessica. Well at least the up side was that he didn’t start the dream with fucking her. Because that? Was seriously fucking with his mind. 

This time she was sitting on the bench. She was dressed in a white, lacy dress that flowed around her thin, beautiful body in soft waves. Her hair was curling over her shoulders and framing that almost innocent face in strands of gold as she tilted her face up, to the sun. She looked eerily calm. Different than before. Easier somehow.

Dean sighed and sat down on the bench beside her. He couldn’t smell her, couldn’t feel the heat of her body. And it made it easier somehow. That she wasn’t flesh and bone for him any more. But he already knew, still remembered the taste of her skin under his tongue. The sounds she made when he entered her. It was so fucked up he had no idea where to even start.

“I really, really am not in the mood for nightmares right now. Can we please not do this today? Can I have a rain check, please?”

Jess turned her face towards him. Her blue eyes locked with his. She looked at him, really looked and...

Dean stood up suddenly, scanning the familiar – unfamiliar surroundings.

“Something’s different.” He murmured to himself. Because Jess before, in those nightmares he had earlier, was just an echo of the woman he saw very briefly. 

“Yes. It is.” She answered him. And that alone was a dead giveaway. She never once responded to him before. Not that clearly anyway.

“What the hell is going on here? Why are you here?”

Jess looked at her, her blue eyes almost luminescent. 

“I’m here because you bring me here.” 

Dean stared at her. No. Just fucking no. He couldn’t deal with anything more right now. He has had enough. Dean pressed his hands to his ears and scrunched his eyes closed.

“No!” He yelled as loud as he could, denying everything he saw and felt. He screamed so long and so hard he woke himself up. Lying in an undignified lump on the kitchen floor, his ribs aching so badly he thought he was going to throw up.

* * *

Sarah groaned waking up, a minute before strong knocking to the door roused John also.

“’S okay.” She murmured, her voice low and hoarse. “I know who it is.” She stumbled out of bed, no grace whatsoever and hunted for something to wear. Her hair was messed up beyond belief sticking out in blonde tufts and her lips were still a bit swollen. There were small red marks along her neck and little scratch marks over her shoulders. 

John blinked at her, but trusted her words and didn’t make a move to get up. He felt content to just lay there and watch her. She wasn’t beautiful by any modern standards. She had quite a bit more weight on her than could be called only a few pounds. There were definitely more than a few. But there was something inherently female about her. Her long, incredibly soft and thick hair, her lips and long, strong column of her throat spoke to the most primal instincts inside him. She was also a definite alpha female. She had no problems standing up to him. She barely even noticed when he opposed to be truthful. There was strength, a natural ability to lead people in her. Not charm but definitely charisma and strength. She was a rare breed nowadays. 

He watched her as she huffed while dressing and then stumbled her way towards the door. He was already awake and going back to sleep was so out of the question. John sat up and rubbed his face with his palms. Sarah awakened some strange instincts inside him. He felt a little odd, ashamed even about the way he treated her the night before. He honestly couldn’t remember ever being this rough with a woman. But Sarah was almost his height, she weighed marginally less than him and was built strongly. She looked like she could take whatever he dished out. And somewhere along the way he forgot what was drummed into him throughout his childhood. That one should always be careful around a woman, not swear and not hurt her. And yet here he was, biting and scratching at her like a man possessed. And she didn’t even try to stop him. She just took it and gave back as good as she got. He could feel the deep, now scabbed scratches on his back and bite marks all over his chest. 

He came to her in pain, and she let him work it out. He felt calmer, more happy in a way. A weight was lifted from his shoulders, a feeling that everything would work out now filling him. It always surprised him how heavily emotions were connected to a purely physical state. Sex, apparently, did wonders for his mental state. A sudden thought occurred to him then. That it wasn’t just sex. Not any more. Even though it was rough and fast, and harsh it was so much more fulfilling than any of his one night stands after Mary. He respected Sarah, and genuinely liked her. And wanted her. That was so much more than he allowed himself to have for over twenty years now. And it made him feel guilty. How could he move on with his life, find somebody else when Mary was dead and her killer still at large?

He dressed to the low murmur of voices. John paused and crept as silently as he could towards the kitchen where the voices were coming from. One was obviously Sarah’s. Still sleep roughened and lazy. That woman took forever to wake up properly. The other one was male. But John had never heard a voice like that. It was low, rich like chocolate and seductive. The timbre odd and captivating. 

“Marakaj, you know perfectly well that I’m neutral. I always have been. I won’t work for your family, nor any other.” 

There was a hum of water, she was probably going to make coffee. 

“Am I asking you for anything?” The man was obviously amused and relaxed.

“There is not a single altruistic cell in your body. You come here, bringing gifts? You definitely want something back.” 

“I’m hurt.” The man murmured, his voice all sex and gravel. “Have I ever been anything less than friendly towards you?”

“Let’s skip the pleasantries. Why do you offer me that information? You know me. I will take it and give nothing back. It’s you who wants to give it to me, not me who asked. Therefore there’s no need for me to be grateful.” 

The man laughed.

“Your honesty was always so refreshing. Anyway, you shouldn’t be surprised. You are the most valuable commodity these days. Everybody watches you. Imagine the outcry it caused when different families in LA learned that you got involved with a hunter, no less. People got nervous. Maybe even trigger happy a bit. I offered to come and scout the area a bit. After all, you hooking up with a hunter was like an open invitation to war.” 

“I am and always was neutral. John doesn’t have anything to do with it.”

A low chuckle from the man sent strange shivers up John’s spine.

“Now. We both know that’s not exactly true. You weren’t always neutral.” There was a shared secret in his voice and it made John feel... jealous. 

“There was a witness, Sarah.”

Sarah sighed.

“I keep forgetting. Even for your kind, it’s a long time to live.”

John rounded the corner and finally stood face to face with the owner of the most captivating voice that he ever heard. 

The man was tall, probably as tall as Sam. His face was smooth and almost perfect. Long nose, sharp cheekbones, full lips. His hair was black, deep dark that contrasted with the paleness of his face sharply. It was straight and fell in a soft, shiny cascade down to his waist. He was dressed casually in jeans and a black shirt, two top buttons undone. 

His eyes had the most incredible color John remembered seeing. Dark blue, navy blue and the color was so sharp and clear it had to be contact lenses. It wasn’t natural. His clothes, although casual, were obviously expensive. The shirt clung to his body, showing strong muscles and long limbs off with ease that only came with tailored clothes. He had an expensive watch on his arm and a concealed blade in his right boot. He looked about thirty, but his face was so smooth and perfect, ageless, that he could have been fifty and John wouldn’t know. 

He tensed at the concealed weapon but Sarah seemed relaxed around him, familiar, so he took his cues from her.

“And what kind would that be?” John asked a little suspicious. 

Sarah poured water into the waiting cups. Two teas and one coffee. So this man shared her fancy for tea.

“A vampire.” Marakaj answered, very obviously pleased by the reaction John wasn’t quite able to hide.

John stared at the sharp sunlight filtering through the kitchen window and resting on Marakaj’s exposed hand. The man leaned over the counter, his back to the windows and didn’t seem bothered by the sunlight. Yes, John knew vampires didn’t burn in sunlight but it hurt them, like a bad allergy, so they avoided it. This one didn’t, though. 

“Marakaj, meet John Winchester. A hunter. John. This is Marakaj. The head of one of the biggest families in the north-west US. My house is a neutral place so please, be civil to each other.” 

John stared. He felt... he had no idea how he felt.

“Families?” He asked, not sure he heard right. 

Marakaj smiled, obviously pleased with himself and the world in general. John resisted the urge to punch him. 

“Yes. Hundreds and hundreds of my people all over this wonderful country.”

It was... disturbing was mildly put. This Marakaj looked and behaved like nothing John expected from a vampire.

“I have hunted your kind before.” He said, trying to wipe that self satisfied smirk off that pale, beautiful face. 

Marakaj took the offered cup and sipped some of the rich smelling tea.

“Correction. You hunted some primitive being that carried a vague resemblance to my kind. So don’t think you can do a damn thing to me. After all you are just a fragile human.” There was a threat underlying the amusement.

“Boys.” Sarah warned them both softly. “My home, my rules.” She put the cup down. “Marakaj stays for breakfast. He has some info you might find important, John.”

She turned back to the cupboards, reaching for the bread to make some sandwiches. 

Shit, John thought. He was obviously going to have breakfast with a vampire. His life just kept getting better and better. But there was nothing he could do. Sarah once showed him what she could do. And he had no doubts he would make them both pay if they even thought of disturbing her home.

The long haired man sprawled himself decadently over the nearest chair, his air falling in a soft wave over his shoulders, framing a face that was just too pretty. It disturbed John, that he noticed it. That he was more than aware of how damn attractive this man was. His face might be ethereal, almost feminine but there was nothing feminine in the way his body was built. Huge palms cradled the mug that looked positively tiny in those long fingers. His chest, well defined and wide, filled the tailored shirt perfectly. The strong but not too big pectorals flexed with each lazy move. His long, strong legs encased in denim, were spread out in front of him with a kind of lazy, cocky sensuality. He was perfectly aware of how attractive he was. 

John felt an uncomfortable flush under his whiskers and quickly took a seat behind the breakfast table. 

The corner of Marakaj’s lips lifted in an amused smirk. He knew damn well just what effect he had on John. 

“Glamour.” John said suddenly, his mind finally making the connection. “You are using a glamour.” Because no one, no one could be this attractive. Especially when John had never once been attracted to a man in his life.

This time there was a spark of respect in those eerie, navy blue eyes.

“Something like that. I’m impressed that you caught up so quickly. Most people never do.” His voice was low, rich, so damn intoxicating.

Knowing that it was magic, a spell that made him look so good, did nothing to lessen the allure. He cast a glance at Sarah, still making sandwiches as if everything was peachy. As if there wasn’t a vampire sitting behind her kitchen table.

“Don’t look at me. Magic, spells, it doesn’t work on me. Never did.” She said calmly, casually. Too casually. There was something underlying her words...

Amusement.

“You find it funny, don’t you?” He accused.

Sarah let go of a tiny smile that had been tugging at her lips for quite a while. 

“Maybe a little. But John,” She almost whined, “you are just such a macho man and seeing you falling for Marakaj, even if a little bit, it’s just... priceless.” She couldn’t stop the giggle.

“I’m not falling for anybody!” He denied vehemently even though there was that strange thought in the back of his mind, the what if... John shook his head.

“Stop it!” He barked, more embarrassed than angry. 

“I can’t. Stop fighting the attraction, accept it and the impact will lessen considerably.” Marakaj advised, still so insufferably amused with himself and situation. 

“You can relax, John. Marakaj is here to help. I promise.” Sarah interjected setting a plate filled with sandwiches on the table between them.

“How can you be so sure?” John challenged her, still uneasy with his feelings and her amusement.

Her eyes darkened, the amusement evaporating and John instantly regretted snapping at her.

“Because if he helps you now, I will be more inclined to help when he comes asking for a favor. And he will. Nothing is ever free with Marakaj.” 

John looked up at the vampire. Marakaj was chewing and watching Sarah with a strangely thoughtful expression. There was a kind of emotion in his eyes now, that wasn’t there before. In that moment John realized that the vampire wanted Sarah. John felt a dark kind of amusement, possessiveness and pure pride that he had something the vampire wanted. So what if the vampire was handsome as all hell, obviously rich and sophisticated. Sarah still chose John, a graying hunter with two grown children and a shitload of problems. 

John reached out to Sarah and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, relishing the fact that she let him, didn’t flinch at his touch. 

She looked up at him, eyes spilling amber all over the sun filled kitchen and smiled. Soft, intimate, familiar, before turning her attention back to her breakfast.

John looked at the vampire again and was pleased to see him watching John. He wasn’t so amused any more.

“So, what do you know?”

Marakaj swallowed the last bite of his sandwich and leaned back, exposing the strong lines of his throat.

“The body of Nathaniel Belmonde has disappeared after your son contacted Sarah. The police department that worked the murders your son committed has suffered a severe fire last night. There is no more evidence connecting Samuel Winchester to anything. Someone went to great lengths to sweep it under the rug.”

John swallowed. 

“Belmonde wasn’t the only one involved.” He whispered, feeling a sharp sense of fear spear him. Sam and Dean were alone now. 

“Apparently.”

“Do you know who it is?” John asked, all previous hostility gone.

Marakaj shook his head.

“Whoever that is hides pretty well. If I can’t find him, it means he has means that aren’t available to me. And there isn’t much that I can’t use. Either way, you have to take you children and leave the city. It’s not safe for you here. All of you.”

John looked at Sarah. Her head was bent and she was staring at her cup of tea. She knew he was going to leave. He never promised anything else. But still he felt guilty. Because he had a feeling he got more out of this relationship than she. He got help, a chance to save his son, a lover. She? Not nearly as much.

“That’s not so easy. Sam is in no condition to travel.” John said slowly, already planning. No matter what it might look like, he had to keep his boys safe. Do what he failed to do so far.

Marakaj looked at Sarah, obviously considering something. 

“I have a place, not far from LA that I could let you use. It’s well protected against both humans and supernatural beings. And it’s fairly secluded.”

“I would have to think about it.” John said raising from the table. The fact that there might be someone else after Sam was turning his blood cold. He needed to get his boys away from this city as fast as possible.

“Well, I think it’s time for me to go.” Marakaj rose from the table, all grace and sensuality.

Meow.

All three of them looked down to see T sitting on the floor in front of Marakaj and gazing at him with adoring eyes. It was kind of disgusting how sweetly the cat behaved in front of the vampire.

T purred and Marakaj smiled, bending down to pick her up. Although it was a rather large cat, it looked tiny in his arm. He stroked T and murmured adornments at her and she purred for all she was worth.

Sarah stared at them with a wry smile on her lips.

“You know, she would gladly have your kittens if she could, she adores you so much. I can’t honestly remember the last time when she was so nice or clingy to me.”

Marakaj snorted.

“She just has an exquisite taste. She is one very smart and one very beautiful lady, aren’t you T?” He all but purred at the cat. The cat purred back closing her eyes in pleasure. 

Sarah got up. “I’ll show you to the door.” She shot John a look that clearly meant he was not to follow and left the kitchen. Marakaj shot him a look also, but this one John couldn’t decipher.

“If you decide to use my cabin, just tell Sarah. She knows how to contact me.” Still carrying the cat, Marakaj left the kitchen after Sarah.

* * *

Marakaj let the cat jump down and looked at Sarah holding the door open.

“Is everything okay?” He asked, his brow furrowing. 

“Of course. Why do you ask?” They had strange relationship. Not quite a friendship, but much more than anything else. In a way, Marakaj seemed to have a weakness for her. Yes, always wanted something for his help. But the price was never high and always known from the start. 

“You smell differently. Not sick but...” He shook his head. “You should go the doctor though and get yourself checked out.” There was honest concern in his voice.

Sarah smiled but said nothing. She knew what he smelled and was quite baffled that he could sense she was pregnant so early.

“How are things going on with Nara?” She tried to change the topic.

He rolled his eyes, his face expressive and almost open.

“Still fucking in love with that damn human.” He growled with contempt. 

“I’m sorry. I really am.” And she was. Nara was his wife, his partner for most of his life. He trained her, molded her into the woman she was now, taught to be his partner, his right hand and she left him. For a human no less. He played it cool, but it must have hurt him. He never said that he loved her, but if he didn’t she would already be dead for her betrayal, not left alone. Unhurt.

“Don’t be. She’s just a woman. I can have dozens like her.” 

She watched him shrug on his black, expensive, tailored jacket and thought that yes, he might have dozens but not the one he wants. Somehow Marakaj always ended up alone. 

“Don’t pity me, Sarah.” He said catching her thoughtful gaze. “I’m having way too much fun in this life to deserve pity. Call me when you lover boy decides something.” 

She snorted at John being called her lover boy. Hell, calling him a boy was hilarious in itself. She closed the door and went back in search of John. The cat ran by her side.

“Traitor.” She murmured at the cat.

The feline pretended not to hear a thing.

She found John in the kitchen, cleaning up the dishes. He looked so out of place standing behind the sink and washing plates. 

“What?” He asked, sensing her staring.

“Nothing. It’s just that you doing dishes is such an... odd sight.”

John laughed. Low and easy.

“I raised two sons. Believe me, I spent more time washing plates and pans than I ever wanted to.” 

Sarah looked at him and although she knew he was a father, couldn’t really imagine him as one. He was a warrior, a hunter deep down to the bone. Trying to picture him changing diapers or teaching his sons the alphabet was... difficult. She knew it was unfair of her, to deny that part of him, but she still knew him very little. And obviously she wouldn’t have a chance to get to know him better. 

She thought about the new life inside her. But as she watched him dry the cleaned dishes and then stretch out to put them into the cupboards, she noticed the gun tucked in the back of his pants. Even here, inside her home he was armed and ready to fight, watching out for threats, planning and assessing. Sarah knew then, that she wouldn’t tell him. John didn’t need nor want this kind of complication. He had his revenge. The only mistress he desired.

“So...” John started, deceptively casual. “How did you get to know a vampire? And how old is he, anyway.”

She grabbed an apple and sat on the chair, watching him clean and act so very casually. 

“It’s a long story. Not really very interesting, but long.” She bit down into the apple. “He found me. Basically, Marakaj was always around.”

John looked back at her, there was an odd note in her voice.

“Always? As in ten, fifteen years? Since you were a child?”

Sarah licked her lips and looked at John from beneath her lashes.

“As in ever since I lived for the first time. I have known him in all the lifetimes I had.”

John dropped his pretense at being casual and stared at her.

“You are shitting me.” He didn’t even notice he was swearing.

“No, I’m not. I think he is over two thousandth years old. He was always old.” She murmured.

“Why do you think that?”

“Because of his power, of the kind of magic he can use effortlessly. I can’t sense a limit to it. Basically magic is energy, harnessed and controlled, put into a shape given it by a spell. Marakaj is like an ocean. There is no end to his power. He is one of the very few creatures I probably wouldn’t be able to kill. So I would be very grateful if you didn’t try to come after him. He won’t attack you due to the association with me, but if you make the first move, all bets are off. I know you are intelligent and smart, trained in combat. But he was a general, a genius tactician for centuries. There is no fighting that kind of experience. Please don’t challenge him.”

John felt an odd pang of... something, at the knowledge that she was, indeed, afraid for him.

“He is a vampire. He kills people...”

Sarah stopped him.

“No. He doesn’t. It’s too much trouble and besides his kind has accumulated vast financial resources over the centuries. He simply pays donors to offer him their blood. He takes some, but he doesn’t kill. No vampire needs to kill. It’s just that they don’t control or don’t want to control their instincts.”

“His kind?” John interjected completely lost.

Sarah cocked her head, baffled.

“So you don’t know? Vampires, like humans, have different races. They differ from each other. Marakaj is a Nosferatu. They are mostly magical.”

“The vampires I met were instinctual, bloody creatures that killed more for joy than food. I never saw anything that would confirm your words. Besides I thought that vampires were extinct anyway.”

“Most of them are.” Sarah agreed. “There was a huge war between the families. By then they were lacking pure blooded leaders like Marakaj so the alliances disintegrated. The Nosferatu family won. Marakaj slaughtered most of their population before he accepted a peace treaty. He knew what he was doing. He went for the oldest, most powerful and knowledgeable vampires in other families, thus setting them back severely. That’s how the Grhu-ha had started roaming free.”

“What is a Grhu-ha?” Jesus. John had no idea about it. 

“They are the outcasts. The ones that regressed into instincts and animal like behaviors. Probably what you met before.” 

John scrubbed his face with his palms.

Jesus Christ.

“And you are telling me that they all are so law abiding and good hearted that they don’t kill humans?”

Sarah shook her head and there was a little pity in her eyes. 

“No. of course not. But they are severely outnumbered by humans and they don’t want to draw attention to themselves. Because when push came to shove, humans would win. So they don’t kill to avoid drawing attention to themselves. And in this age and place it’s more than easy to buy donors than kidnap or maim them.” 

John paced a little.

“This all, what you are talking about... it’s just too unreal.”

Sarah could feel her eyebrows disappear into her hairline. 

“Unreal?” She repeated because she damn well couldn’t believe he used that word. “Remind me, because I forgot, just what do you do on a daily basis?”

John tilted his head in acknowledgment and smiled a little ruefully.

Sarah watched him pace and felt they couldn’t avoid the issue any longer. 

“You should accept Marakaj’s offer.”

John froze for a second, then resumed his pacing.

“I know.” He said, voice low and hoarse, without looking at her. “But I have never run from anything in my life.”

She was silent for a long moment, watching as his strong, compact body moved gracefully. He was so very male, simply exuded that primal aura of strength and confidence. Add the dark and brooding hero allure to it you got a quite heady mix. Letting him go without fight or tears would be one of the hardest things she ever did. But John didn’t deserve to feel guilty.

“Sam and Dean need time to heal and bond. If they don‘t, all this would be in vain.”

John stopped in front of the window and looked down onto the street.

“That’s the only reason I am agreeing to this. I obviously can’t protect Sam, and he is in no shape to take care of himself, not mentioning actually protecting himself.”

She stared at him for a long moment, wanting to go to him and hug him. But she couldn’t trust herself to let go if she did.

“I’ll go call Marakaj. Set things in motion.” 

* * *

He was tired and fuzzy, his brain still caught up in the terror of the nightmare. Somebody was shaking him, trying to wake him up. His body tensed, heart quickening, the fear finding a new focus.

The air smelled of alcohol and blood.

“Sam. Sammy. It’s me. Wake up, man.”

Dean.

Sam didn’t want to wake up, his brain was so fuzzy, his eyes just stayed closed no matter how hard he tried to open them. But it was Dean. His brother. And even in this half aware state, afraid, with the taste of bitter panic on his tongue he still trusted Dean. Maybe even more than any other time.

He groaned, turning his head towards the source of sound, trying to cling to the little dregs of consciousness floating around in his mind.

Something small and dry, bitter, was pressed to his lips. He smelled his brother, it were his fingers pressing something into his mouth so he parted his lips.

“That’s it, Sammy. I need you to swallow the pills, okay?”

The harsh bitterness exploded on his tongue and he tried to spit the pills out, acting on instinct.

“No, Sam. Don’t. You need to rest. Swallow them, okay?” Dean’s voice was strangely quivery and unsteady but Sam was too out of it to notice.

The smell of cheep booze got even stronger in the air.

Something cool and smooth was pressed to his lips. A glass. Still more than half asleep he gulped down some of the water, washing down the pills.

He didn’t know what they were, nor did he care. It was his brother that gave them to him so it was okay to swallow. 

“Okay, okay. That’s good, Sammy. Now go back to sleep. You need rest.”

Sam groaned something in response but was already asleep by the time the sound completely left his mouth.

 

TBC


	18. Chapter 18

Dean shifted in the sinfully expensive leather seat and stroked the silky hair under his hand absently. He looked down at Sam’s sleeping face. He looked pale and had dark circles under his eyes. He didn’t look peaceful at all. He knew well enough that it was the drugs that made him sleep. And that was odd. For all his knowledge of all things Sam, Dean had expected a vicious fight this morning when Sam asked what the pills Dean had given him were for. Instead Sam just looked empty eyed at the bottle and then, without a word shook out two pills and swallowed them dry. 

He became calm and docile, very sleepy afterwards. Not saying a word, he just lay down again and closed his eyes. Not long after, his brother was in drug induced, heavy sleep. 

It took Dean a while to realize that Sam had actually taken the cowards way out. He was escaping his pain, his memories into the obliviousness provided. It... disturbed Dean. The easy, almost defeated way Sam just took them. He didn’t even try to fight. Dean would rather hear his angry words and screams than this silence. This docile man sleeping with his head on Dean’s thighs wasn’t his brother. He just wore his face.

Sam didn’t wake up when their father called and told them to pack and for Dean to give the keys to the Impala to whoever comes to the door and asks for them.

When the knock came, Dean answered the door, gun firmly in hand. He nearly swallowed his tongue at the sight in front of him. 

There were two men. Casually clothed. Average in almost every way. Except when he didn’t look too closely he could swear he was looking at himself and Sam. Their faces weren’t really the same as his and Sam’s but there was a very strong similarity. The faces, the build, the body language, the clothes. 

“What the fuck.” Dean just stared, unaware that he even drew the gun out. 

The men just looked at him. The smaller one, with a cocky grin and gelled up hair extended his hand, palm up.

“Keys dude?”

And Jesus but he even talked like Dean.

Dean just got his cell out and dialed Dad without once taking eyes from the pair in front of him. The signal ringed once, twice and then John answered.

“Yes?”

It was still odd to have Dad actually answering his phone, not letting it go directly to voicemail. 

“Why there are two fucking doppelgangers on front of me?” He asked, almost casually, his gun still trained on the patiently waiting men. 

“Doppelgangers?” 

“Yes Dad. fucking Doppelgangers. Of Sam and me. And you want me to give them Impala? The Impala? My fucking baby?” Dean couldn’t stop the swearing. It was just too much.

“Hell, Sarah was right. The man is good.” John muttered, not really wanting Dean to hear.

“What man? Dad, what is going on?”

“Listen. Just give them the keys.”

“What for?” Dean insisted. It was THE Impala after all. It’s not like he would just give it to some random guys just because... his Dad ordered him to. Fuck.

He could almost hear John rolling his eyes. “Of all the things it has to be that damned car that makes you question my orders. Okay then. They are going to take the car and drive around the country a bit. The point is they are going to be driving in the exact opposite direction to where we are going. Satisfied? Not stop stalling. Give them the keys, finish packing and get Sam down to the underground parking lot a block away from your building. A car will come to take you from there. Understood?”

Dean mentally deflated.

“Yes sir.”

Gritting his teeth he gave the car keys away. 

His double had the audacity to wink at him while he pocketed the keys to Dean’s beloved baby.

“You give her even a scratch, and I will fucking hunt you down and eviscerate you.” Dean growled low in his throat. 

After that it was a simple job to pack what few belongings they actually had there. It was much harder to wake Sam up and make him walk on his own. He kept messing up the steps, tripping over his legs and looking like a total addict on a bad trip. 

Still it was good he was walking on his own strength because there was no way in Hell that he would be able to support the freaking mountain that was his younger brother. Sometimes life just wasn’t fair. At all. 

So they got to the parking lot after some stumbling and fumbling. It was almost empty. It was eleven in the morning on Monday and most people were at work. There was no one around. So Dean was just going to settle for a long wait when he heard an engine purring gently. He watched, with a kind of sick awe as a freaking black limousine with tinted windows slowed down to a stop in front of him and Sam. A driver, complete with a damn uniform and cap, got out and opened the passenger doors.

“Mr. Winchester?” It was polite and completely impersonal. The man stared at some point just over Dean’s shoulder. Never making eye contact. Never even looking directly at any of the brothers.

He bent down to grab the bags but the driver was already halfway there.

“Let me take care of that.” For a moment Dean considered fighting him, just on principle. But hell, it was a damn limousine! He was so going to enjoy it.

So Dean tugged his brother inside and settled himself comfortably on the incredibly soft, leather seats. Sam, docile like a lamb, just shuffled lower and lay down, pillowing his head on Dean’s thigh. Going back to sleep.

Dean let him. They would talk about his sudden love for pills later, when things started making a little more sense. 

He heard the driver put their bags into the trunk and then got back into the car. Soon they were driving onto the road and Dean felt even more confused than before. What the Hell was going on?

“Where are you taking us?” Dean asked, grateful for the press of gun against his back and the blade in his boot.

“To the meeting place.”

“Yeah, and who are we supposed to meet?”

The driver didn’t take his eyes from the road even once.

“I’m not privy to such information. I just drive.” His tone was final. He was not going to discuss it.

* * *

John snapped his phone shut and took one last look around his motel room. He hadn’t spent much time here. He changed the grip on the bag and went out to check out.

He caught a glimpse of Sarah, with a similar duffel bag at her feet already waiting on the parking lot.

It only took a moment to check out and he was crossing the parking lot to her. Her golden hair, loose and shifting on the light breeze gleamed like gold in the early morning sun. 

“I packed everything that didn’t look like it belonged to the motel.” Sarah smiled at him, a little unsure. A little apprehensive. She didn’t want him to go. He could see as much. But she never said a word. And John was grateful for that. Because he would have left her anyway. His sons now so much more important than any kind of relationship he could have with her. 

“It’s good.”

They stared at each other, the day surprisingly calm around them. Silence and only the warm sun rays caressing them. Her eyes glowed amber and gold, soft and feline. 

Sarah turned her eyes to the side, breaking the contact. John watched her lick her lips as if she wanted to say something, but in the end she just closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She let it out slowly, loudly. Her face lost the sublime tension that was there ever since morning. 

When Sarah opened her eyes, they were dark and old somehow. In that one moment, between one breath and another she looked every bit like the woman that could never end.  
Her lips moved but no sound came from between them as she reached out toward John’s face and touched his forehead. 

There were no flashes of lightning, no angels singing nor did the earth split. But John knew that she did something. Something big and important. He could feel it in the way his heart stuttered for just one moment. In the way his skin felt cold and clammy, goose bumps almost painful beneath his clothes and the feeling of heavy coldness that passed through him in a single heartbeat.

Sarah blinked and her eyes were the warm amber again that he got to know so well.

“What did you do?” John asked, still shivering a little.

She gave him a sad, small smile. The air was warm and almost still around her, only the occasional sound of a car engine breaking the almost otherworldly calm.

“When the time comes, I want to be the one to lead you through. I don’t want it to be something as nameless as Death. You deserve better.”

John opened his mouth to say something, but nothing much came out. It was just too much. For him, a man that hunted supernatural being for half his life, one that knew from bitter experience that you can’t kill death, can’t escape it. Now or a year later, it will always get to you.

Now he was told that Death wouldn’t come for him. That when things came to an end, when his body gave out on him, it wouldn’t be Death that came for him. It would be Sarah.

It was scary and disturbing. An odd gift to receive. But it was also very her. Even after everything that happened John still didn’t really believe, not deep down, in the kind of power she claimed she had. He couldn’t. If he did, it would mean that Sarah was one of the things he hunted.

Touched with an uncomfortable thought, John reached for Sarah. His palm closed over her warm shoulder.

“Sarah. Who comes for you?”

She smiled, but it was just a grin. Just her lips curling in a small, insignificant grin. Her eyes remained solemn and warm, with a hint of something sad behind them.

“No one.”

He opened his mouth, but once again there was nothing that he could say. He was never good at expressing his feelings and all those years of hunting only made it worse.

“I’m sorry.” He said finally. 

She smiled. A small but honest smile.

“You don’t have to be. I get to live again. To make my dreams true. To taste and see things I always wanted to see.”

Looking into her amber eyes, John could see that she truly believed that. She did enjoy her life. Just living.

“You are amazing.”

And she was, John understood that now. Understood with a shocking clarity just what had drew him to her so strongly. She suffered a tragedy, a horror liked the one he lived through. His life stopped the day Mary died. He did nothing for himself. Just to avenge his wife and keep his children safe. 

Sarah on the other side lived. She laughed and played, dreamed and strove to make the dreams real. She had friends, and pets and was truly happy to be alive even though the shadows of memory still haunted her. John hadn’t lived in twenty three years. 

She cocked her head to the side, a cascade of beautiful, blonde hair falling over her face and one arm.

“It’s just a choice I made. You can do it too, you know. Be happy. There is no one that would begrudge you happiness. Not your children, nor your wife.” She said it gently, slowly. And John barely even flinched at the mentioning of Mary.

He didn’t answer but he leaned down to kiss her. A soft goodbye of a sorts. One he could never say with words, but he could with his lips and hands. 

She felt good in his arms. Like she could belong there. Soft in all the places he touched, full and curvy in a way that was fashionable a few hundred years ago and now frowned upon.

Her hand slid under the lapel of his jacket and played over his shirt, just below his heart. She kneaded the flesh there gently.

John could feel a gentle smile tugging at his lips. A lot of women were attracted to his musculature but she definitely had a kink here.

The sound of a cell phone chirping caused them to pull apart. Sarah was flushed and her lips were swollen, tender looking. John was grateful for his whiskers, hiding his own reaction.

As he watched her answer the phone, John shifted trying to get rid of the slight embarrassment at the very public display.

“Yes, we’re done.” Sarah said not really managing to hide the slightly breathless quality to her voice. “Okay. We’ll be there in ten minutes tops.” 

John took his cue from her and pulled the car keys from his pocket. He opened the trunk first and threw the bags inside.

“Where to?” He asked when he got behind the wheel and started the truck, looking at Sarah fastening her seatbelt from the corner of his eyes.

“I’ll lead you.” She smiled gently at John. “A car is waiting to take you to your sons.”

* * *

Marakaj leaned back in his custom made chair and put his arms behind his head. Things were going well. Sarah accepted his help which gave him a kind of leverage he wanted. With a pleased sigh he closed his eyes and relaxed until it was time to go and meet up with the Winchester family.

There was a hard, brisk knock at his door and then the sound of footsteps. He didn’t even bother with opening his eyes. Only one person knocked like that and disturbed him any time she liked. Kyra Moore, his right hand. She handled the part where his family became his corporation. Tough as nails, loyal and intelligent, she was one of the very, very few who weren’t intimidated by him. She was a half breed too. Half human, half Grhu-ha to boot. That was probably the reason for her attitude. She had a choice. To become a victim because neither world accepted what she was, or become strong enough that other’s thought twice about messing with her. Most of the time, Marakaj suspected she just didn’t give a damn one way or the other. 

“I heard about the little plot of yours.” She stated, sitting herself comfortably in the visitors chair.

“Already? It’s been just a few hours.” Marakaj murmured opening his eyes and yawning lazily.

Kyra was a dark haired, attractive woman. She grinned at him, all teeth and attitude.

“You really should fire that assistant of yours. He has no spine whatsoever.”

Marakaj laughed.

“It’s not his spine or the lack of thereof that is his problem. It’s the fact that he has a crush on you.”

Kyra rolled her eyes. Marakaj never actually saw her interested in a man in any other way than appreciating their physical attributes. She was worse than any man on that front.

“Why are you getting involved with a hunter like that? It’s not very politically correct of you. It’s causing some... unrest.” 

And there was one more thing to Kyra. She came from the shady area where no one was fully human or vampire. No family, no connections, she met a lot of people like her. Friends in low places, that might have been a cliché, but when it came to rumors and moods running through his people, she knew everything a lot sooner that any of the higher standing vampires.

“Who?” 

She sighed.

“Andrew’s son. He’s a pompous jerk, stupid and full of himself, sure that he can lead his family so much better than his father. And he hates your guts.”

“I’ll take care of him after I finish with the Winchesters. Personally.”

She turned her gaze away. Kyra knew he was as likely to rip the boy to shreds as to talk to him, and didn’t approve of his violent nature. But she’d stopped arguing about it a long time ago.

“So why did you decide to help the hunter? Sarah Andrews is neutral. Everybody knows that.” She pressed.

Marakaj smiled, his unique eyes slanting and teeth gleaming.

“Because of the 21st.”

Her brow furrowed.

“The council meeting?”

“No. The party that happens before. Guess who will be accompanying me?”

Her brows rose.

“Well, that will definitely shake things up.”

Marakaj smirked and looked at his watch. Time to go.

* * *

Dean shifted as he felt the car slow down and then stop in front of an elegant, five story building of chrome and glass. The driver got out and Dean shifted again, pushing Sam into a semi sitting position and reached for the Glock he had hidden before getting into the car. He made sure the gun was loaded and easily reachable before hiding it again. 

The door opened and a man got in. Dean looked up at him, and well, that was all that he did. He stared. The stranger was tall and big, his body even bigger than Sam’s. But he was fucking beautiful. Face pale and smooth as if chiseled in marble, eyes slanted in quiet amusement that had the most incredible shade of navy blue he ever saw on a human and his black, straight hair fell over his powerful shoulders like a wave of black silk. 

An obviously expensive white shirt clung to his body in all the right places and a massive, silver watch circled a strong wrist. It unnerved Dean, just how aware he was of the sheer physicality of this man. How he noticed all the tiny details, noticed how the man stretched his legs in the space between seats, how the well tailored slacks showed off his strong thighs, how his fingers were long and strong and so very sensual... and throughout it all he was aware of the amused smirk firmly in place.

“My name is Marakaj. All this…” He gestured to the limo. “Is mine.”

“Why are you helping us?” Dean asked, unsure, on edge, worried about his brother.

The man smiled, a crooked amused twist of his lips and sprawled even more in the seat.

“We have a friend in common. And I just love the fact that John will have to explain it to you.” He looked pleased, and incredibly sexy sprawled back on the soft, black leather. His loose hair fanned out behind him, a black curtain of silk. The man was damned attractive and he damn well knew it.

Dean felt another wave of uneasiness. The man was attractive, too damn attractive for Dean’s peace of mind, but there was also something wicked in his voice. 

“Explain what, dude?”

The man smiled wide, showing all his teeth.

“Me.” There was a glint in his strange, beautiful eyes. “And the fact that I am a vampire.” 

Dean didn’t even have to think about it. Years worth of training made him reach for the gun he kept hidden and point it at the still smirking man.

He only smiled wider, stretching his long, powerful body, totally unconcerned.

“You actually think a gun can stop me if I wanted to do something?” Marakaj asked clearly enjoying himself. It set Dean on edge more than anything else.

“No.” Dean answered keeping his hand steady and eyes firmly on the other man. “But it will slow you down.”

“Oh really?” Marakaj smiled, his white teeth gleaming in the semi dark interior of the car. In less than a heartbeat Marakaj had the gun wrenched away from Dean and one inhumanly strong hand closed over Dean’s throat. He wasn’t strangling the older Winchester, yet. But the possibility was there.

“Now.” Marakaj drawled, that insufferable smugness still present in his incredible eyes, even if his voice had now another, a lot more dangerous quality. “You were saying something?” 

Dean was regretting his actions now. The man was obviously trying to help, and Dean acted without thinking. Now he could either end up dead or the man could refuse to help anymore. Both ways, it would be Sam that suffered the consequences of his brash actions.

Fuck.

“Dean.” The word was slurred, his brother still more asleep than awake. “Wha’s goin’ on?”

Double fuck.

Dean wasn’t sure what happened then. He saw a slow, sluggish movement from the corner of his eye. Heard Sam murmur something and then Marakaj was off him and in the opposite seat, hissing and pressing one of his hands to his right side, his odd eyes fixed on Sammy.

Dean shifted, trying to cover his brother somehow from the strange, intense gaze. His little brother slid down the seat again and laid his head on Dean’s lap. Sleeping again. Completely unaware of what he had done.

“What the hell is he?” Asked Marakaj, unbuttoning his shirt and pulling the cloth away from his muscled stomach. On his side was one angry, bleeding burn. The skin was obviously scorched, all the layers of skin were gone in what looked loosely like a palm print. The exposed flesh looked incredibly painful and vulnerable. Dean had to give the man credit, he thought. When he watched Marakaj calmly pick pieces of burned flesh through cloth from the gaping wound. The vampire closed his eyes and exhaled slowly.

Right in front of Dean’s eyes the wound started healing. Fresh pink skin started growing back, connecting the scorched edges. Soon the only sign that there ever was any damage was the burnt through shirt.

“I have seen a lot of Sarah’s Weapons. But never something quite like this.” Murmured Marakaj watching the now sleeping Sam. 

Both men stared at each other, the tension thick in the air and Sammy sleeping, oblivious to the conflict.

The limousine pulled to the curb and the driver got out. They could hear the sound of the trunk being opened and closed and then the side door opened. Neither Dean nor Marakaj took their eyes away from each other.

John slid into the car and his nose twitched. Over the years he became all too familiar with the smell of blood and burning flesh.

Carefully he looked over the situation. Sam was sleeping, his head in Dean’s lap. Dean was tense, one hand in his brother’s hair the other clenched into a tight fist. His eyes fixed on Marakaj. One of his son’s favorite Glocks was laying on the floor between the seats.

Marakaj was sprawled on the opposite seat but there was a subtle undercurrent of tension in his body now that John hadn’t seen before. His shirt was undone, showing the sculpted chest. On the right side there was a burnt through hole but the flesh beneath looked unmarked. The vampire’s eyes were fixed on the sleeping from of his youngest son.

“Is something wrong?” John asked cautiously, sensing the tension.

Dean twitched, threw an angry glare at John and opened his mouth, but then snapped it shut without a word. Obviously he wanted to fight about something, but doing it in front of Marakaj wasn’t a good idea and Dean recognized it.

Marakaj sighed theatrically and pulled his shirt off. Then threw it to the floor. His muscles flexed and John caught a glimpse of a huge tattoo of a dragon on his back. The vampire opened a hidden compartment in the side of the car and pulled out a black plastic bag. He rummaged in it until he found a tee shirt and pulled it out. Not embarrassed in the least that he was being carefully watched, he pulled it on. The black cotton stretched over his powerful chest and outlined the sharp lines of muscles very clearly.

He chucked lightly.

“Like what you see?” He asked as he opened another compartment and pulled a bottle of clear liquid. And a glass. Both Winchesters looked away from his body. John knew it was the glamour, but he just couldn’t help himself but stare. 

“Vodka anyone?” He asked, ever the gracious host.

Both Winchesters shook their heads. 

A smug grin curled the black haired man’s lips. He poured himself a glass of the scentless alcohol and then swallowed it in one long pull. 

“Don’t worry John. Your sons and me just played a little show and tell game here. Nothing serious.” He set the glass back in the small compartment and closed it.

Dean gasped. He had a feeling he was manipulated into something.

 

“Really, how they managed to survive the hunting this long is beyond me.” Marakaj murmured smiling crookedly at Dean, daring him to do something, anything.

And it hit him then. Such a simple act, just a few words that caused Dean to pull the gun. It was never about Dean. He was just a human here but when Dean was in danger, or perceived he was in danger, then Sam reacted.

It was never about Dean or even John for that matter. It was about forcing Sam to reveal what he was capable of now.

“You wanted to see what Sam can do now that the Weapon is asleep.”

Marakaj crossed his legs and pulled a silver cigarette case from his pocket.

“Hmm, not as stupid as I thought.” Again that infuriating smugness. “Maybe there’s hope for you yet. Depending on if you learn to think before acting of course.” 

Dean gritted his teeth. It stung. Because that bastard was right. He pulled a gun on a creature he never met before, in a confined space of a car, with his brother out of commission. He didn’t know what kind of powers the man had, his abilities, his strength. Sam managed to get Marakaj off him, but it was only because Marakaj wasn’t trying to harm him in the first place. He was so fast, that Dean couldn’t even see his movements, not to mention defending himself from them. 

“Why are you interested in Sam?” John asked, resigned to the strained truce. From what he saw so far the man was as self serving as they came. Everything he did had some kind of bonus for him. 

Marakaj lit a thin, obviously not American cigarette, and inhaled.

“I always try to get to know the newly awakened Weapons. It’s a matter of strategy. They are human, so there are things they want. And if can I provide them, they might provide me with what I want.”

“You want the Weapons.” Dean said, catching on quickly. His hand closed tighter in his brother’s hair, and unconscious protective gesture. 

Marakaj looked at him, obviously bemused.

“Of course I want them to work for me. They are the perfect soldiers after all.”

“Well you can’t have Sam.” Dean objected strongly. “He would never work for someone like you.”

“Oh, I’m offended. You know me for less than an hour and already managed to judge me? How... human of you.” Marakaj opened the window slightly, to let out the smoke. The cigarette wasn’t a normal one, it smelled strangely, probably a herbal one. 

The man looked over at the sleeping form of the youngest Winchester.

“Right now it’s a fifty-fifty chance for me.” He said seriously. “I can feel his pain. Hear it, almost smell it on him. He has too much power, too much rage inside him. The pure aggression, bloodlust and guilt pulsing just under his skin is like a poison. With every minute, every hour, every day the Sam Winchester you knew before is disappearing. Piece by piece his old personality is crumpling under the horror, anger and guilt. If it was only the Weapon, the psychological trauma wouldn’t be so bad. The Weapon’s are known for defending their Wielder from things that may cause trauma. Like pain, or the memories of what he has done. They simply suppress the Wielder’s psyche for a while so that even if the person knows what happened, it’s like watching a movie or reading a book for them. No real emotional involvement. But his case is different.” Marakaj’s eyes hooded, lashes falling onto the sun kissed cheeks. “His pain is too powerful, like a living entity. It’s like a sound of a downpour against the glass. Pounding, relentless, dark, wanting to break through. The Weapon didn’t protect him.”

Marakaj took another long pull of the cigarette.

“But, why?” John wondered. “Sarah said that the Weapons always behave the same.”

“There are a few logical explanations. First was that the Weapon was tampered with somehow. Which is completely impossible without Sarah’s knowledge. The second most probable explanation, one that I think is true in this case, is that Sam didn’t actually use the Weapon. He used his own powers for killing. Used his own talents, however deep they were buried. If the weapon wasn’t used, it couldn’t protect Sam from the damage.”

Everyone in the car stared at the sleeping man. None of them seriously considered that Sam can have such... offensive abilities.

“If you don’t reach him, if you don’t manage to get rid of his guilt... he’ll be ripe for plucking.”

Dean snarled.

“Yeah? We’re his family, the only thing he has. He loves us. Loves me. What could you possibly offer Sam to make him leave?”

Marakaj extinguished the cigarette in the astray, a small, almost tender smile playing on his pale lips. He looked up, eyes dark and odd, almost glowing in the semi dark of the car. 

“Oblivion.” 

Deans stared at him. Triple fuck. That was probably the one thing Sam desired right now the most.

TBC


	19. Chapter 19

Damn that damn house again and again.

Dean cursed as he reached the last step of the flight of stairs he just climbed. Before him, he could see another long corridor, three sets of identical doors on his right, and at the end another flight of stairs.

It was the sixth flight of stairs he climbed already. And the cursed house was only two stories high!

Damn that cursed vampire and his fucking charmed house.

Slamming his fist into the sedately brown painted wall, Dean reached for his phone. It was embarrassing, really. To call for his dad. But for some reason, the freaky house just refused to accept him. Even John learned how to move in this hellhole of a building within the first two days. Three weeks later, Dean still got horribly lost.

The house looked terribly mundane when they arrived. Just a wooden, two story building. Clean, nice but not really worth a second look. Nothing out of the ordinary. Of course if you ignored the pack of two-fucking-dozen Hellhounds patrolling the grounds. Dean didn’t even want to think what kind of power was needed to keep so many of those creatures so perfectly obedient.

And that was even before they entered the simple house. As soon as the door closed behind them, there was a slight feeling of vertigo and then they were standing in a freaking marble hall with miles and miles of corridors leading into every direction and dozens of staircases. Hid dad called it a charmed house. It seemed the building was as big or as small as they needed it, and would change and shift to fit to their needs. And had other people currently staying here. It still freaked him out. Where did the house store them when Dean wasn’t looking? Since they came here on Marakaj’s invitation the house would listen to them too. Or it should.

“Just think of you destination, and the next door you open will be the one you wanted.”

Like hell it did.

John and Sam seemed perfectly at ease with the thing, always ending up where they wanted.

It was just a pity that the damn building hated Dean’s guts and kept him walking the damn stairs for hours. And after the first few episodes, he even started to knock on the door because he wasn’t ready to die just yet.

“Hey Dad. Pick me up, okay? The House of Horrors is making me traipse around like fucking Alice in Wonderland. Again.”

Thank God the phones still worked.

Right on clue, his vision became blurry for a split second and instead of a staircase there was now another set of doors in front of him. With a silent click they opened and his father stepped out.

John looked good. Much better than either of his sons to be frank. Good food, quiet and a huge library with books that were supposed to be destroyed centuries ago. Ever since the oldest Winchester found the incredible library he was spending his days in there copying the arcane spells and wards, finding things that would gave them that much advantage over the supernatural they were hunting.

In the three weeks they were coped up in the house Sam got better, now almost no traces of his condition were left on his body. No scars, the sickly thinness. He actually looked better than ever before, his body achieving the peak of physical condition and health without him doing anything. John suspected it was because of the Weapon, even if it was asleep.

But that’s as far as it went. Sam changed so much, that Dean couldn’t even recognize his own brother any more. In some ways he even thought that the Weapon was better than this... nothing.

He was quiet and meek to the point he didn’t seem to have any personality at all. He didn’t speak to anyone, didn’t raise his eyes from the floor if he didn’t absolutely have to and never, ever looked anyone in the eyes.

He ate when told to eat, he washed, he dressed himself and took his clothes to laundry. But nothing more. He didn’t turn his computer on once, didn’t take a book into his hands even though John kept bringing him some stuff almost daily. Didn’t watch TV. He didn’t even turn the light on after the sunset.

Just sat on his bed or in the armchair by the window, with his knees pulled high to his neck. He was like a living zombie. And no matter what Dean or John did, it made no difference. Sam retreated so far into himself it was as if he wasn’t even there.

“Dean.” His father greeted him quietly. His eyes softened at Dean’s slightly haggard appearance. It ate at him, that he was so fucking powerless to do anything for his brother. And it was his brother. His baby brother. Sammy. Dean did everything to forget that it wasn’t quite right. He did not want to remember that for over two weeks they were something much, much more.

That belonged to the past.

“Hey Dad. Take me to Sam? This freaking house is playing tricks on me again. I really fucking hate it.” He complained, letting a little whine slip into his voice. He really, really hated this place. It gave him the creeps. And the fact that both John and Sam were so eager to accept it was creeping him out even more.

* * *

Marakaj closed his eyes and took a deep breath, inhaling the herbal scent of his cigarette and let his eyes drift partially open to look at the silent boy sitting with his knees under his chin in the leather armchair, his silhouette barely touched by the cold moonlight.

He was still, frozen solid in his grief and pain, trying desperately to escape his memories. And at the same time tormenting himself with everything he had done, believing in the need for punishment.

Silly, silly child. 

Marakaj snorted silently. 

So stupid.

So human.

Something he had done himself before life taught him better.

Regret was a waste of time, waste of emotions. Living by anyone’s rules, other than your own, was a stupidity that demanded it’s price in blood and tears.

The boy didn’t move. Didn’t really react to Marakaj’s presence at all. 

For some reason he kept coming back to Sam Winchester’s room almost every night. Sometimes talking, sometimes just smoking and listening to the despair that poured off the boy in waves.

It was really hilarious. Ironic, but funny as hell. It wasn’t even the deaths he caused. Or the pain and suffering his victims went through before he finally killed them that tormented the boy. It was something much more simple.

It was the fact that he had his love in his grasp, could taste it, touch it, fulfill it. For it only to be taken away from him after barely few weeks.

Marakaj wondered if Dean Winchester even realized that was killing his baby brother? Every day, every minute was a reminder of what he had and what he lost.

Maybe that was why Marakaj felt drawn to the boy? After all he was once in love too. With the only person he should never have feelings for. He was so much younger then. No one told him that vampires of his blood never forgot. Never distanced themselves to memories. No one told him, that once he let himself fall in love... he would be in love with that person until he died. There was no forgetting, no moving on. Just an endless misery of memory like shards of glass cutting into a naked, unprotected flesh.

More than two and a half thousandth years, and he could still sometimes see her just in the corner of his eye, smell her warm blood on his hands, see her eyes boring into him even as her life drained from her body rapidly.

Marakaj tilted his head back, letting his long, black hair spill loose over the white wall and melt into the shadows. 

It was such a great plan, a perfect opportunity to take out both his enemies at once. A perfectly planned, perfectly executed, logical and insightful plan. He managed to foresee movements of every key player months in advance. His carefully orchestrated plan was flawless. Both the new threat and her died in the final confrontation leaving him to collect the spoils. Leaving him as the most powerful being in his world. A God.

But there was one thing he never even considered. One thing that seemed so trivial then. His feelings for her... he never knew it was love. Not until he heard her heart stop and her saw her eyes loose any expression, that he felt pain. For the very first time in his life he felt pain. He loved her. But he realized it only after he killed her. Life was so ironic. So, so ironic. 

“You can’t run away forever, you know? You can either deal with it or let it go completely. No middle ground.” Marakaj pushed himself away from the wall, the cigarette burning forgotten in his hand. “Unlike me, you have a choice. I was never given that privilege.”

Sam didn’t move but he could sense the shift in attention. It surprised him, how good the boy was in following his train of thought. A very intelligent human. One that saw far more of what Marakaj truly was than anyone, especially after knowing him for such a short period of time. 

Just because Sam didn’t make a sound, didn’t speak or respond outwardly in any matter, didn’t mean he wasn’t paying attention.

“What? Surprised that I loved someone too? Unlike you humans, vampires like me have it so much worse.” He took a step to the small table with a carafe of whisky and poured himself a healthy portion. 

“Humans can forget, can move on. Can love more than one person in their lifetimes. We? We can only ever love once. And that feeling never fades, never lessens. The memories, emotions, desires are always as fresh as the first time, the first day.” He gulped down the alcohol and poured himself another glass. This time a full one. He wished he could get drunk. He really, really wished. “I’m not from this world. Not in the Underworld sense, or Hell, or whatever you think vampires come from. But in the alternate universe sense. A different Earth, a different humanity.”

Sam still didn’t move, but Marakaj could definitely sense faint curiosity from him.

“By the time I was thirty I had already seized the leadership from the former Emperor. I was much smarter and much, much more powerful than any vampire in existence then. Just like you saw, most, almost all, vampires don’t possess any power, magic at all. Just the enhanced speed and strength, ability to morph certain body parts. Like claws and the teeth. Magic users, like me are very rare. Right now there are only few that could come anywhere near me. The strongest one is the one who controls whole of the Asia continent. He controls fire. A very, very powerful individual. There’s another one in Australia, also controlling the whole continent. His powers are a little like telekinesis. Other than those two, there isn’t a single individual capable of opposing me in the vampire world. Back in my homeland there wasn’t anyone. Not among the vampires anyway. There was one human however. A woman to boot. She was intelligent. Very intelligent, but not really at my level. Yet she could beat me in brute strength.” He smiled bitterly. “Let me tell you, I did not like that fact one little bit. It drove me nuts. So I started a war with humans. It was fun. I slaughtered her cities, she slaughtered my warriors. And so it went. Everyone was happy, everyone had a purpose, knew his place in the grand scheme of things. I wasn’t bored. Idyllic life, really.” Marakaj said sarcastically and stopped for a moment, remembering his old companions. Remembering how much fun it was to make plans and strategies. How challenging she was in her odd ways. Mostly she couldn’t really see though his plans. Not completely any way. But she got such wonderful instincts and every time she wasn’t sure what was going to happen she just did something outrageous and unexpected and created chaos. 

“But then, suddenly, fun times were over. A new threat appeared. A threat to humans and vampires alike. A demon. A huge and powerful one, too. Neither me, nor her could do a damn thing alone. So she decided to cooperate. It was her idea, her risk. She came to me. Without protection, and offered the deal. To work together against the new threat.”

Marakaj swallowed another shot of whiskey.

“She wasn’t beautiful. Pretty, but kind of ordinary. She was smart, but not really any comparison to me. But she was so incredibly strong for a fragile human, and so damn brave. From the moment I first saw her with my own eyes, I wanted to know her secret. To know just why such an ordinary person could make me so damn irritated. For all her strength I should have outwitted her years before. It was desire to understand, fascination that drove me to make her my lover. We worked together surprisingly well. For all the differences, we made a surprisingly effective team. We created a spell that, if performed correctly, would elevate us onto godlike levels. Pray you never see the kind of power we invoked. If performed wrong the power of the spell, would have ripped the very structure of universe apart.”

“It took us months to create it, hundreds of plans... thousands of little things that had to be perfectly prepared. I took most of the planning, my talent for logic and careful deduction far surpassing her abilities. She took on herself the most magic. For some reason her body and mind were able to sustain levels of power that would have burned me to ashes. I must admit I was jealous.”

Marakaj put the alcohol away. It wasn’t helping him. It still felt like yesterday.

“She never noticed you know? Never realized that I wasn’t going to honor our agreement. I planned very carefully, more than aware that the demon was much too great a threat to ever think of taking on alone. But I was never going to let her survive the final confrontation. I made sure, manipulated the events so that she would die along with the demon. I was a little angry at myself for being fascinated with such an... ordinary person. Well except her talent for magic. Other than that she behaved like any other woman. She fell in love with me quickly, and never noticed that I didn’t ask nor want her feelings. She meant nothing to me. But every time she told me she loved me, she always added ‘remember’ at the end. Just another of her quirks. I didn’t really care enough to notice.”

It was all still so fresh in his memory. As long as he was alive, those memories would hunt him.

“Everything went perfectly. Exactly according to plan. She was the bait and it was her job to keep the demon occupied until I finished the incantation.” Marakaj closed his eyes feeling the bitter taste of memories fresh on his tongue.

“What happened?” Sam’s voice was rough, unused, but he felt drawn into the tale, into the pain now so clear on the usually smirking and condescending vampire.

Marakaj smiled, but it was just a grin that stretched his lips. No feeling behind it at all.

“She was too busy fighting the demon to notice the tiny change in the incantation. By the time she did, it was already too late.”

Marakaj stopped, letting the heavy silence fill the room. He stared at Sam, but the boy doubted the vampire saw him.

“I held her while she was dying. I figured she deserved that much. I did plan to kill her, but I wasn’t going to be cruel about it. She was sad and in pain, but she wasn’t surprised. She was dying and she knew whose fault it was. I expected anger, recriminations... but as usual she surprised me.”

Marakaj closed his eyes narrating the memory as if it happened a just now.

_“We are both fools.” She said gently, her face surprisingly calm even though her blood was escaping through the hole in her chest with deadly speed. “You...” She reached up to touch his face, but her bloodied fingers didn’t make it. He watched as the hand fell to the flood again. “... because you wouldn’t recognize love even if it bit you on the ass.” Her voice was becoming weaker with every second. She looked more resigned, disappointed than scared or angry. “And I am a fool too... because I believed...” Talking was becoming a difficulty. The pauses between words became longer and longer. “I believed that a wolf... would not... be a wolf.”_

_“You...” For the first time Marakaj grew uneasy._

_She smiled at him almost gently._

_“I almost pity you, Marakaj.” She whispered. “I always knew the price I would have to pay for my foolishness.” This time, along with the exhaled air, blood left her mouth. Marakaj cleaned it away with his fingers. Somehow, he didn’t like the sight of it against her pale skin. “You however... have yet to pay.” Her eyes closed, she no longer had the strength to keep them open “One day... I’ll see you... again.”_

_The last of her life left her, leaving only an empty carcass in his arms._

“It was ironic, really. As I felt her die I realized something. I loved her. Like I haven’t loved before or after.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Sam asked after a long pause. It was disturbing, to hear something so human from the vampire.

Marakaj smiled that infuriating smirk again. “Many reasons. One of then is to show you that I understand.” The vampire looked Sam straight in the eye. His gaze seemed to burn right into Sam’s soul, seeing all the secrets Sam so desperately needed to hide. 

“I know what it’s like to feel regret. To loose something you never really expected to have. I know how it’s like to hate yourself so much you want to claw at your body until there’s nothing but bone left.” The oddly beautiful, navy blue eyes completely commanded Sam’s attention.

“I can understand you on a level that your bother will never be capable of.” The vampire’s voice turned low, husky, seductive. He tilted his head to the side, letting his black hair fall over one shoulder in a glossy waterfall of pure darkness. “I know what you need. What you want.” 

He closed the distance with the smooth grace that defined him from the very beginning. The vampire stopped so close to Sam the boy could smell the expensive cologne and the underlying musky tang of a predator.

Marakaj leaned down, one of his hands finding purchase on the back of the armchair Sam was sitting in, barely inches from the youngest Winchester’s neck.

He smiled, his face beautiful but cruel at the same time. 

Sam couldn’t take his eyes off him. He knew it was dangerous, but it was like staring at a train wreck in motion. No chance of turning away.

“I can give you what you need.” Marakaj’s face was so close Sam could even smell the scent of his skin. “And I could make it hurt.”

Sam’s breath hitched and he turned his face away.

Marakaj smiled, mocking and victorious.

“Let me guess. You promised your brother you wouldn’t hurt yourself anymore, right?”

Sam’s whole body stiffened.

Bulls-eye, thought Marakaj, barely containing his mirth. Humans were such predictable creatures.

“But you want it so much right now. To be punished...” The vampire whispered, pressing his lips to the exposed neck, enjoying the flinch Sam gave. “To be punished for all your sins. To be hurt.”

Sam remained silent and still, but the vein under Marakaj’s lips was pulsing madly.

“So loyal.” He mocked again, enjoying how the boy struggled to stay calm and unaffected. Sometimes words were even worse tan actual torture.

He let his teeth grow. Then he pressed the sharp points into Sam’s neck. Very gently. Careful not to actually break the vulnerable skin there.

“But there’s no need to feel guilty, though.” The vampire let his tongue travel a slow path up over Sam’s neck tasking tendon and veins under the thin layer of skin. So much life in such a fragile packaging. It aroused and pleased him to feel how the boy flinched half in fear, half in something completely different, something much more twisted. “After all, it’s not like you could actually stop me.”

This time Sam’s eyes returned sharply to the vampire.

“But I did. In the car.” He reminded softly his voice scratchy and damaged from the lack of use.

Marakaj smiled not bothering to retract his fangs, his face just inches from Sam’s.

“Ah... that was just a minor miscalculation on my part. One I will never repeat again.” 

The vampire waited for the miniscule contraction of Sam’s pupils and the subtle change of scent that signified that the Soul Weapon’s power was seeping into the boy and then moved. Within a fraction of a second he was away from the Winchester boy and was drawing his hand back for a blow. Letting some of his own, carefully constricted power out, he backhanded the young man.

Then he just stood there, watching as Sam coughed and spit some blood, sprawled on the floor where Marakaj’s blow knocked him to.

“I’m old, you see.” Marakaj pushed his hair back, enjoying the weight on his shoulders. He came closer to the slightly stunned Winchester. The vampire wondered just how much of the Weapon’s power Sam used consciously. “You are of no more threat to me than an ant is to an elephant.” He crouched by Sam, wove his fingers into the messy brown bangs and pulled, forcing the boy into a more upright position. “I’m so old I created a whole bloodline of vampires in a world that wasn’t even my own. I can do to you whatever I damn well please.” Marakaj’s voice was gentle, almost sweet, seductive and scary at the same time. “… and there’s nothing you can do about it.” With that Marakaj bit down on the exposed neck. The moment his fangs went in, Sam stopped struggling and only gasped helplessly in pain. 

Marakaj took only a few mouthfuls, enjoying the agonized sounds coming from the Winchester boy. It was so obvious he never had to deal with pure blooded vampire before. Especially someone as powerful as Marakaj. He let go of Sam and the boy slumped to the ground barely conscious and still shivering in pain. 

The vampire licked his lips.

“Delicious.” He murmured watching with a pleased smile as the little mark scabbed over and the faded completely in a barely few moments. The blood tasted of pain, power and forbidden love. A heady mixture.

There was always a price to be paid for ignorance. Sam should know it better than others.

The vampire tsk’ed at the boy and scooped him up, lifting his big frame effortlessly. Then he deposited Sam into the armchair he occupied before.

“You see Sam, pure blooded vampires are not only infinitely stronger than the fallen kind you dealt with before. They also have all sorts of fun abilities. The ability to control what out chosen victim experience is one of the basic ones. I can make you feel unbelievable pleasure that’ll make you feel dazed for days while I feed from you.” Marakaj took Sam’s chin in his hand, smirking at the prickle of short stubble there. He pulled the boy’s face up, waiting till the pain hazed eyes focused properly on him.

“But I can also make you feel pain; the kind of pain that breaks you apart, leaving nothing more than jaded, shattered pieces.

Still keeping Sam’s chin in his hand Marakaj leaned down and kissed the dazed boy, forcing him to taste his own blood. Using his thumb, Marakaj forced Sam’s jaw open and deepened the kiss. By the time he finished, Sam’s still too bright eyes held so many contradicting emotions even Marakaj couldn’t really make them all.

A knock on the door was such an ordinary, unexpected sound that it shocked both of them back into reality.

“Sam?” They heard muffled calling. “You okay there, bro?”

Sam, still staring at the vampire used the back of his hand to wipe his lips. His eyes weren’t cold or dead now. They were burning with anger.

“Ah... the involuntarily cruel brother is here. When you get tired of his ignorance, you an seek me out.” Marakaj offered with a smirk and headed towards the door. Not bothering to look back he opened the door to reveal an obviously agitated Dean. The look of shock and immediate suspicion on Dean’s face made Marakaj smile crookedly once again.

“He’s all yours.” He purred, drawing out the sounds.

“Wha...” Dean started to ask, but Marakaj just sidestepped him and walked down the corridor, making Dean choose between following him and concern for his brother.

When Marakaj heard the door close, he felt his smirk slip off his face.

“For now.” He whispered to himself. “Only for now, Dean.”

Love is an expensive game to play. Sam is already paying the price. When will you pay yours I wonder, mused Marakaj putting his hands in his pockets and striding down an endless corridor. 

TBC


	20. Chapter 20

Dean looked at his brother, but the younger man’s face was hidden in the shadows.

“What did the bloodsucker want with you?” 

The silence stretched. 

Dean had gotten used to those sudden silences enough in the last weeks, that he didn’t start yelling at Sam immediately. 

“To talk.” Sam answered. His voice was calm and quiet, a little rough from the lack of use. His little brother never really talked anymore. At least not to him or their dad, preferring to keep things to himself. However, this passive silence that ruled between them nowadays drove Dean insane. He hated it, and the distance it implied, with a passion he usually reserved for the demons and shape-shifters. Lately, it seemed like a miracle if Sam spoke to him more than three words at a time. 

“Yeah?” It stung a little that Sam would talk to the vampire but not him. “About what?”

Dean watched Sam’s large hands resting on the armrests of the chair. It was the only part of Sam clearly visible in the relative darkness of the room.

The strong, long fingers twitched and then dug deep into the leather, betraying emotion that Sam’s voice and face hid so perfectly.

“Past.”

“And what can the bloodsucker know about you or your past? I don’t trust him.”

Sam made a sound, a strange, painful, harsh sound that tore at Dean’s very soul. He didn’t like how bitter Sam has become recently. It tasted like failure. Like a defeat. Because, as an older brother, all he ever wanted was to protect Sammy. 

This... was a failure.

“Trust, huh?” Sam rose from the chair in a move too fluid to be natural. His eyes flashed black. Not the demon-possessed blackness but a simple play of shadows on his face, yet it made Dean’s breath catch. He always hated the fact that Sam was both taller and heavier than him. 

Sam looked at him, truly looked at him and Dean could see that although he was already healed physically, all the stress of the last few weeks took its tool on his brother. 

“So, you don’t trust Marakaj... but do you trust me anymore?” There was something harsh, almost insane underneath Sam’s words, the tone, the oddly threatening pose.

That was another one of the changes Dean hated with a vengeance. The way Sam could become threatening where earlier there was only empathy and concern. 

“Do you still trust me, Dean?” Sam whispered coming so close to Dean; the older Winchester could smell his brother’s sweat and the cologne he used.

“Yeah...” Dean answered, but his voice broke on the last vowel. “You are my brother. I will always trust you. I love you.” Dean continued, keeping his voice under strict control. No matter how off balance, how vulnerable he felt right now, it was a God’s honest truth. He loved Sam. No matter what.

Something flashed through Sam’s eyes. A baffling mixture of regret, gratitude and anger.

Suddenly, the younger Winchester moved. Just as it was with the grace, another left over from the Weapon was speed and strength that easily surpassed that of an ordinary human. While it wasn’t so blatantly supernatural, it still set Dean’s teeth on edge and threw him off. Between one heartbeat and the next, he found himself pinned to the wall behind him, Sammy’s large hands curled over his shoulders keeping him still, keeping him immobile. His brother leaned close, his eyes half lidded and burning with a painful mixture of emotions, his body trembling with the strain of suppressing... something. 

“Right now, Dean, I’m the last person you should trust.”

“Bullshit.” Spat Dean, refusing to be intimidated.

It might be true that he felt a sliver of fear when Sam became so much like his Weapon persona, that his strength and speed, and the casual ruthlessness made him feel uneasy; he knew Sam wouldn’t hurt him. Even when the Weapon was in control, when there was a spell controlling him, Sam never once tried to hurt Dean. So, in the end, Dean knew Sam wasn’t a danger to him. Believed in it with a fierceness he had never felt before.

“There’s an animal inside me. A monster that’s already a part of me.” Sam whispered harshly, his hands pushing Dean into the wall even more.

There were tears on his brother’s face. Even though his words were harsh and hands almost cruel, Sam’s tears were a testament of his pain. Above all, right now, Sam suffered and it broke Dean’s heart.

“You won’t do anything to hurt me, Sammy.” Dean answered, looking straight into his brother’s anguished eyes.

Sam closed his eyes and his body trembled once. “You are wrong, Dean. So wrong...”

With that his brother leaned down and pressed his lips to Dean’s in a harsh, bruising kiss.

Dean gasped at the all too familiar taste. The sensation of a slick, demanding tongue forcing its way between his lips. Taking, caressing with a skill and knowledge that sent shivers down his spine. It wasn’t even that Sam was such a good kisser either. It was the reaction trained into his body during those weeks when Sam came to him every single night. A Pavlovian response to stimuli that kicked in much faster and stronger than his brain. Damn him for always being such a slut for stimuli anyway.

Before his brain even caught up with what was going on, he was already moaning, his head thrown back as Sam suckled at the vulnerable skin of his throat as if he was the one living off of blood. 

“S...Sam...” He tried to protest, but Sam’s hand on the front of his jeans cut him off quickly.

No, Dean thought desperately. It was not happening. It was not happening.

He closed his eyes tightly, scared to open them and look into his brother’s face, scared of what he could see there. But it wasn’t helping either. It only made him focus on his other senses. 

Dean could smell his brother’s skin, the sweat and heat of him, could feel the tightly coiled strength and insanity thrumming just under Sam’s skin through his fingertips. And when exactly did his hands curl around his brother’s shoulders? He tried to move, to push Sammy away but then Sam shoved his hand inside Dean’s jeans and even though the older Winchester made his best not to think, not to acknowledge that he was already hard for God’s sake... he could no longer hold back the scream.

It was wrong; it was Sammy, his brother. It wasn’t happening because the damn bracelet was broken and there was no reason, no explanation, no excuse anymore and he just couldn’t handle it all right now...

“Sam... no... wait, please!” He panted desperately, hands scrambling to push his brother away but to no avail. Sam was still licking and sucking as his throat and his long, strong fingers closed over his straining cock jerking him off just right...

“It’s not right.” Dean gasped, panicked. “Not real... there was a spell...”

Sam chuckled, but it wasn’t a happy sound. His breath ghosted over the skin he just licked, and his cold nose bumped into Dean’s ear.

“I smelled the witch on you the moment I saw you in the bar.” He licked the shell of Dean’s ear almost delicately while his hand never stopped moving. “It was just a matter of hours before I tracked her down.”

Dean froze, his heart pounding, mind grinding to halt and simply refusing to accept the information. His heart pounded in fear and arousal, body tightening on a brink of orgasm already.

“There was never any spell, any excuse.” Sam’s hand tightened just right on Dean’s cock, squeezing harder and jerking faster and it was already a lost battle. Seeing small bursts of light behind his eyelids, Dean’s whole body arched as he came, spurting over his brother’s hand.

Dean shook, his mind reeling in little panicked circles, refusing to hear, to understand what Sam was saying. 

“There was never any excuse, Dean, nothing and no one to carry the responsibility except you.”

Dean stared into his brother’s oddly luminous green eyes filled with anger, love, desire and more than a touch of insanity and shook.

“You... fucking... bastard!” It happened almost in slow motion. Dean drew back his fist and slammed it into his brother’s face, body shaking with rage, fear and shame. “You...”

Sam didn’t even try to avoid the blow. He took the fist straight on, his head snapping back sharply and body tumbling to the ground gracelessly. His hair fell over his eyes, hiding them from Dean. Only the split lip visibly accusing Dean.

Slowly, Sam used the back of his hand to clear the blood that was sluggishly dripping from his chin. He didn’t look up at Dean when he spoke quietly.

“Why did you do it, Dean? Why did you give me a taste of heaven only to take it back?” Sam accused. “Do you have a fucking idea what it did to me? I love you, Dean, God knows I do. But for that thing, I think I might just hate you.”

The calmness and seriousness of his voice took Dean’s breath away. He just couldn’t, wouldn’t, deal with all this shit. There was too much. Too fucking much going on right now. Everything was just so fucked up. So broken that he didn’t have any idea how to put it back together or if it even could be put together anymore.

His body stank of sweat and come, of spent desire and his pants were still half open. Unable to stand the silent, passive accusation in his brother’s body he turned away on his heel and headed for the door.

“Dinner is in an hour. Don’t be late.” He snapped never looking back at his brother still sprawled on the floor.

He ran away, chased by his brother’s harsh, bitter laughter and his own shivering heart.

 

* * *

Marakaj opened the door, expecting to enter his bedroom. Instead, a completely different room appeared. Large and dark, it was empty except for the huge bed in the middle. On it sat a thin man with silvery blond hair falling in cascades over his shoulders and all the way through the bed down to the floor. He was dressed in a simple white tunic, covering him from his neck all the way to his toes.

The man was young, looked barely twenty with white, delicate skin and beautiful feminine features. He lowered his thin, fragile looking hands and looked up at Markaj. His narrow, pale grey eyes denied any kind of vulnerability. Sharp, cold and mocking, they were utterly uninterested in the world around.

The man was so old, even his name was forgotten. For as long as Marakaj knew him, he only ever called him the Sorcerer. 

“So… you woke up.”

The man’s brows lifted.

“Kind of obvious, isn’t it?”

Marakaj felt a smile tugging at his lips.

“Same old, grumpy you, I see.” Marakaj answered the barb, approaching the bed carefully. He made sure not to step on any of the marks drawn on the floor.

“Hmph.” The blond grumbled, looking at his thin hands. “How long did I sleep this time?”

“About twenty years.”

The Sorcerer blinked surprised.

“Only?”

The vampire nodded. If the Sorcerer awoke after such a short time, it meant that something important was going to happen. His main power and basically the only one that came from him, was the ability to foresee future. And it wasn’t just convoluted prophecies like most seers. His divinations reached a level of accuracy that just boggled the mind. He saw not only what was going to happen and when. He saw specific dates, locations, hours and even names. Future was like a set schedule for him.

“Yes.” Marakaj finally reached the bed. “You should probably eat something.”

The Sorcerer looked down on himself and his brow furrowed. 

“I don’t think I can walk.”

Even if his sleep was spell induced, it still took a toll on his body. The fact that he was immortal did not save him from injuries.

Marakaj regarded the narrow eyed man carefully and then kneeled on the bed, pulling the painfully thin form into his arms and lifting him effortlessly. The incredibly long hair fell over Marakaj’s arm like a warm, living thing and trailed all the way down to the floor.

“I should have had someone cut your hair while you were asleep.” The vampire noted as he started back towards the door.

The Sorcerer only shrugged. He really could care less. 

Marakaj almost felt pity for the fragile creature in his arms. The man was old even by Marakaj’s standards. Once, he was a war advisor to a long forgotten king. With his talent for divination of the future, he was priceless and soon led to the king's victory. Intelligent and logical, the Sorcerer never took prisoners, and preferred slaughtering everyone that could ever become a potential threat. If looking only at the numbers, his victims couldn’t even come close to the numbers seen in modern conflicts. But he always ordered the killings without a shred of human emotion. There was no hatred in the man, no pity. Only cold calculation. It was that lack of humanity that earned him the nickname Demon. And it was what led to his final downfall. One day he was cursed. It was a very simple curse, but it was also an astonishingly cruel one. That he would live for the rest of eternity, without the hope of death, to pay for his crimes. Ever since then, the Sorcerer stopped aging. It didn’t matter how many horrible things were done to him, he always survived. Eventually, his mind started to break under the strain of an endless life. To preserve his sanity, the Sorcerer made a deal with Marakaj a few thousand years ago. Using his power, Marakaj was supposed to keep the Sorcerer in an enchanted sleep. In exchange the Sorcerer would wake up and prophesize for Marakaj every time something important was going to happen.

“Let’s get you something to eat, we need to get you back in shape as fast as possible. I can help, but You’ll probably still need a therapist to bring your muscles into proper shape.”

Marakaj let his canines grow and bit down on his own lip, letting his blood fill his mouth. He stopped his movement and shifted the thin man in his arms so that the Sorcerer’s head tilted back. Then Marakaj leaned down and pressed his lips to the other man. He felt the blond flinch as the blood passed his lips.

The blond gagged at the horrible taste but forced himself to swallow. As soon as the disgusting vampire blood reached his stomach, he felt a wash of warmth fill his body, healing him, giving him strength.

“That was unnecessary.” The blond rasped, still shivering.

Marakaj smiled, licking the last the blood away from his lips.

“It’s faster this way.”

The blond shrugged. It didn’t really matter to him. These days, the only thing he wanted was for the only person he ever loved to come back and fulfill his promise. A promise to break the curse. To finally kill him.

The Sorcerer closed his eyes, even his hope shattering into pieces under the pressure of harsh reality. He already waited for so very long...

* * *

Sam leaned on the wall in the shadowed corner of one of the endless corridors in the charmed house. The dinner he had to suffer through was a farce, a trivial play for some to enjoy and for some to suffer through. His father, never really sensitive to other people’s mood, never noticed that things were much worse than before. Sam kept silent, staring at his food as if it would grant him some kind of answers. Marakaj sat at the head of the table and watched them all with an amused curl of his lips. It irritated Sam how damn perceptive the man was, how he always seemed to see every single thing. The oddly beautiful boy who usually set the table was there, too. 

He looked half Japanese, with slightly slanted eyes and black, straight hair. His skin was pale and his long hair pulled into a neat braid resting gently between his shoulder blades. He was maybe fourteen, but it was hard to tell from his slight, almost feminine looks. He was extremely pretty, eye-catching in a way that not many people were. He was also very quiet. Much too quiet for a child his age. And his manners were impeccable. Dressed in the customary white, long sleeved tunic with a silver dragon embroiled in it and pale jeans he looked much too neat for a boy his age. He spoke with quiet, gentle voice and his eyes held a kind of calm that was more than a little discomforting. For reasons unknown, Sam instantly disliked him. They never met outside the meals that were served by the boy, yet the youngest Winchester felt unease and dislike every time to was too close to the boy. It didn’t take a genius to see the unholy devotion shining in the boy’s eyes every time he looked at the vampire. Also, the long braided hair was an effort to imitate Marakaj. That the vampire was obviously accepting the state of affairs made Sam uneasy.

All of that, however, meant nothing in comparison to the single most important fact. Sam looked to his right, to the empty chair and felt something dark and cold coil inside him. Dean was not here. That bastard had the audacity to force Sam to come down while he himself had skipped on the meal, leaving Sam with a father that maybe even wished well but couldn’t talk calmly to Sam even if his life depended on it. And a vampire that had vested interest in alienating Sam from his brother and that freaky kid. 

The expensive food tasted like ashes in his mouth as he thought about what happened in his room less than an hour before. He could still smell his brother’s skin, the musk of his unwilling arousal, taste the saltiness of his body, feel the solid heat of him under his hands. He loved Dean for as long as he could remember, he thought he got used to this. But having been given the actual taste of him, everything changed. 

He had sex with Dean. Many times, intense, wonderful, soul encompassing sex that blew him away, that kept the darkness inside him in check. A connection beyond anything he felt before. He loved Jess. He truly did. She wasn’t just a tool to lessen his loneliness. At that time, he honestly thought about spending his life with her. He loved her. But it was a different kind of love. Sam believed, learned, that you could never love two people the same. And it was also possible to love two people at the same time. Maybe his love towards Jess wasn’t quite so desperate, so mad, but nevertheless, it was true. He truly loved her. She was a ray of light in his bleak existence, a chance for normal life, family. But that was taken away from him. Everything was always just out of his reach. His brother so close, yet always unreachable. His father a huge, larger than life figure that never had any connection to his sons, his mother who he didn’t even remember, friends he never had... all those things wore him down. But he coped. He lived.

Having Dean for himself, having his body, taking him in the most intimate of ways changed something in Sam. Being lovers for such a short time gave Sam a taste, a taste of his brother, and it was like a fatal addiction. He could no longer deny it, deny himself. 

He could no longer stand beside Dean and watch as the man lied to himself. The denial angered him, the refusal made something dark and ugly inside him rise. 

Did Dean even realize that the monster was just a breath away from the surface? That the darkness was pulsing just under his skin?

How dare Dean make Sam taste that fulfillment, give him the free reign of his body, give Sam the right to take him, fuck him, kiss him as much as he ever wanted only to take it away like that?

More often than not, Sam wished he was either left possessed completely by the Weapon or dead. Because this life, this miserable existence, forced on him right now was eating at his will to live at a frightening pace. 

Finally, deciding to take action and stop staring at the closed door to Marakaj’s rooms, Sam knocked. He was just so tired, so very tired of thinking.

“Enter.”

He entered the semi dark room. The vampire was sitting in one of the two ridiculously large armchairs, a thick leather-bound volume on his knees. He didn’t give any sign of acknowledgement towards Sam. It took a while for him to mark the page with a heavily embroidered, old fashioned cloth marker and then close the book softly. The black haired vampire looked stunningly attractive in the warm glow of the single lamp, his hair loose and falling over the wide shoulders clad in navy blue shirt.

“I had a feeling you would come,” murmured the vampire standing up, stretching his impressive figure. With measured, calm movement he strode towards Sam.

The youngest Winchester swallowed but stood firm, his palms pressed to the polished wood. He knew it was wrong, that it was probably the worst choice he could make but he just couldn’t stand it any more. He loved Dean, loved him with his whole being, both as a brother as well as a lover. But he also hated him, was so very angry at his older brother for giving him something he desired for so long only to take it away. He could not forget the smell of Dean’s skin, the taste of his flesh, the feel of his body underneath Sam’s, the sound of his voice. Dean was a sensual creature and incredible lover. Sam had never had a lover so passionate before. He could not forget, would not forget. The desire, the need to be the good little brother as well as the horrible yearning to have Dean as his lover was tearing him apart, driving him insane. He could not stop thinking about it, could not stop the maddening circle in his head. Unable to choose one direction, he seemed to be stuck in a painful limbo that threatened to break the last vestiges of his sanity. He needed to find an out for the pain and frustration, before it broke him completely.

“I...” he started but his voice broke, and Sam needed to start again. “I need to forget. If only for a moment... just... anything that will make me forget.” He almost sobbed the last words, closing his eyes and tilting his head back so hard it thumped against the polished door. “Just for a moment.”

Marakaj smiled that odd, half wistful, half cruel smile. 

“Don’t worry. After I’m finished with you, there won’t be a single coherent thought in your head.” The vampire all but purred. 

Sam watched warily as the vampire came even closer, so close Sam could stare into the other mans oddly colored eyes.

“Since you already knocked, you should enter.” The navy blue, almost black eyes Sam was staring into changed suddenly, gaining an unearthly glow. Suddenly the room ceased to exist, the warm lamplight disappeared, each and every sound dispersed leaving only endless darkness and the overpowering, all encompassing presence of an ancient predator.

Sam shivered, feeling his body break out in cold sweat. It took him a moment to realize that it was fear he was feeling.

“Shall we begin?” Not really words, rather thoughts inside his thoughts that invaded him in a more intimate way than anything he could imagine. A sense of touch, hands ghosting over his very being, made Sam flinch again and stumble trying to get away from the silently threatening presence. 

His heart thundered in his chest and blood roared in his ears, his every instinct screamed at him to go, to move, to get the fuck away before something horrible happened. 

His reaction earned him a chuckle, the low sound coming from everywhere and nowhere in the total darkness. 

He stumbled again and landed hard on the cold floor, his hands splashing into something wet and then slipping, making him roll in the oddly thick liquid. It took him a moment to realize that he knew the cloying smell very well.

Blood.

The floor was covered with warm, sticky blood.

Sam jerked upright as fast as possible, scrambling to his feet and backing away only to realize that wherever he stepped, the sickening, moist sound of blood under his feet followed him.

“Where am I?” He asked confused, scared in a way he just shouldn’t be, hasn't been since he was a small child.

Only laughter met his question. Laughter and pain that seared though his whole body, making him convulse and scream.

“Don’t worry, Samuel. I’m only giving you what you asked for.” The voice, now even more beautiful and smooth, murmured. 

“Pain.” Another wave of pain sends Sam to his knees. This time no sound left his lips, only dry gasping as his lungs struggled desperately for breath.

“Pleasure.” The voice continued murmuring, and Sam’s arms gave under him as he gasped when his body was enveloped in sensation, pleasure that made it almost impossible to think, only breath trying to ride out ecstasy so powerful it was almost painful.

“Over and over again, until there’s nothing left any more. Nothing but what I give you."

* * *

Marakaj opened his eyes feeling a familiar pressure on his mind. Sitting on his haunches in front of Marakaj was Shien, the young boy Marakaj had found thanks to one of the Sorcerer’s divinations. 

His first instinct was to snap at the boy for daring to use his gift of telepathy on Marakaj. The vampire was genuinely fond of the teenager, but he was also ruthless about enforcing his rules. In their relationship, he was the one with all the power and didn’t take kindly to being challenged. While Shien’s gift was more than useful, it still was too much a risk for Marakaj to let the boy into his mind.

He held his tongue though. Shien was always so well behaved, so desperate to please it was odd for him to barge into Marakaj’s mind without invitation. The vampire looked closer into the oddly calm eyes and saw that Shien was paler than usual, tiny frown lines spanned the pretty face that would become stunningly beautiful in a few years, and his usually immaculate hair was escaping the French braid in silky threads. Shien wouldn’t break Markaj’s order lightly.

“What happened?” Asked the vampire, instantly on guard. 

Shien visibly relaxed, tension leaving his body and he sat down on his heels in an almost sloppy way, so unlike the usually rigidly tidy boy.

“It’s three a.m. You wouldn’t wake up.” There were still echoes of fear in the boy’s voice, his black eyes never leaving Marakaj’s face. 

“Hm.” It worried the vampire. He got caught up in his own illusion. If Shien didn’t have the ability to break into people’s minds, he would have been in trouble. He didn’t like to rely on other people, preferring to be self sufficient.

“It proved harder than I thought.” It galled that he underestimated the danger so much. God only knows what could have happened if Sien didn’t come to check on him. His illusions could kill because if one stayed in it too long their mind would disconnect from the body, leading to a heavy coma and eventually death.

Marakaj looked over Shien’s head, further into the room to the huge bed and Samuel Winchester lying on it with eyes partially open and blank.

“What’s his status?” He asked the boy.

Shien’s lips tightened for a brief moment and his face betrayed his dislike of the young Winchester boy. Marakaj had noticed the dislike earlier and was puzzled by it. Shien was always very careful to show only calm serenity on his face, never betraying what he truly thought of anyone. Even towards Marakaj, he was careful. Even the vampire couldn’t tell for sure just what the boy felt towards him. 

“The separation from the illusion was abrupt but it seemed to affect you harder than him. He’s half asleep at the moment, his mind completely blank for now.” Answered the boy.

Again, that dislike. The boy must really loathe Sam, thought Marakaj.

“What is it with you lately?” Snapped the vampire, his patience wearing thin by the fatigue and headache he just started to take notice of.

Shien lowered his head, breaking eye contact and letting the few loose strands of hair obscure his face somewhat.

“Why did you use an illusion? You knew that it is dangerous to do that with Weapons. Weren’t you going to...” Shien hesitated, looking for the best word. “Use other means?”

“You mean sex?”

Periodically, they stumbled on the topic of sex and Shien would avoid it with stubborn grace. Marakaj wondered if he should address the issue just to see how much damage the boy’s past had done. With the way the boy was developing, it was more than possible that sometime in the future either Marakaj would choose to have him in his bed or would require Shien to sleep with someone if it was beneficial for his plans. Having the boy hate sex would be such a nuisance.

“I could have had him, yes. He’s such a wreck it would have been easy, and once he slept with me his relationship with his brother, already strained, would crumble. Without Dean there’s nothing that would keep him with the Winchester family. He would have nowhere to go but to me.”

“Then why didn’t you?” The fact that Marakaj could sleep with both women and men was no surprise to Shien.

This time it was Marakaj’s turn to avert his eyes. He really was planning to seduce the boy and have Dean find out. He wanted the relationship broken, yet when Sam came to him like he had expected, he saw so much pain and despair in the boy’s eyes, so much hopeless love, desire and hatred something inside him moved.

“The poor bastard truly loves his brother.” He sighed. “How I hate that feeling. Love is like the curse that breaks you. Strips you of your will and then enslaves you, tearing at your soul bit by bit, until there’s nothing left of your own self.”

Marakaj looked as Sam again.

“He could have been a terrific asset. With his abilities he would make an excellent operative. With my experience with Weapons and gifted people, I could have trained him until he became a perfect tool.”

The boy looked up at Marakaj with large, dark eyes that barely betrayed any emotion.

“Then why did you change your mind?” Shien asked. He rarely asked for reasons from Marakaj, usually accepting whatever the vampire chose to do. 

Marakaj sighed. He felt tired, irritated and confused, his own reasons unclear to him. Yet it wasn’t something he would admit to Shien. The boy was a pawn in his everlasting game, and no matter how much affection Marakaj had for Shien, in the end the boy would be used for the vampire’s benefit. It wouldn’t do to show any more weakness in front of him.

“He would have been a great fighter, a great asset in my plans. But he would have been a short lived one, too. There’s no way Samuel Winchester would survive more than a few years without his brother.”

Shien flinched slightly and Marakaj couldn’t understand why? What was it about Sam that made the Asian boy so damn upset?

“Hell, I’m drained. I don’t know how I missed the fact that Sam has some mental defenses. I knew about the Weapon and worked around it. I wonder if I’m getting rusty.” It was a cause for concern, really. To think that he overestimated his abilities so severely. Did it mean that his powers were declining at a faster pace than he estimated so far?

“Sam doesn’t have any mental powers. No telepathy, nor empathy, ability to influence people or cast illusions like you.” Shien interjected quietly, still sitting on his haunches on the floor between Marakaj’s knees. 

The vampire looked down on him. 

“What do you mean?”

“When I forced my way into your illusion, to break you out, I felt quite a strong resistance. But it wasn’t coming from Samuel Winchester. His mind has only the defenses set by the Weapon and those are passive. Since you created the illusion inside your own mind and then dragged his consciousness into yourself, it didn’t work. The power that influenced your illusion so strongly didn’t come from neither Sam nor the Weapon.” Shien explained carefully.

“Then where did it come from, exactly?” Asked Marakaj, already starting to suspect the answer.

“His brother. Dean Winchester. My guess would be latent and untrained empathy that acted now because even subconsciously, he still wants to protect Sam.”

Marakaj cursed, it wasn’t really such a shocker. He should have been able to see this earlier, not be taken aback in such a serious way.

“It would actually explain a lot.” He mused aloud.

Shien only looked at him with question in his eyes.

“Sam has a very strict moral compass. All his memories from the time he murdered under control are intact yet he isn’t as broken up about it as I expected him to be. He still feels horrible guilt but he seems kind of detached from it. At first, I suspected it might have been the Soul Weapon protecting him, but if Dean can subconsciously use empathy to protect his brother even from afar, it would fit even more nicely into the picture. Sam isn’t a suicidal, broken wreck of a man right now because Dean is actually healing him; his mental wounds just like he does with the body.”

“Why do those brothers concern you this much?” Shien asked again, his voice quiet and eyes trained on the floor. 

Marakaj didn’t look at the boy however, didn’t see the hands clenched tightly at his sides nor the way the boy kept his mouth tightly shut, lips turned down in a frown. Marakaj did not look and therefore, did not see just how important that question was for his young protégé.

“They’re interesting.” He shrugged the question away, not caring that Shien caught the lie immediately. The Asian boy however only swallowed his emotions, keeping quiet. “Anyway, I’m exhausted and hungry. Come here.” Marakaj extended his hand and waited.

Shien raised his head, his black eyes focusing on the deceptively gentle hand.

He rose on his knees, still between Marakaj’s spread legs, and let the older man thread his fingers in the tightly braided hair at the nape of his neck.

Marakaj pulled the boy closer still, forcing him to use Marakaj’s knees as a support and tugged the boy’s head aside, until the long, pale neck was exposed.

With a pleased little exhale, he bent down and let his incisors extend. The boy smelled just as good as he always did, young and powerful. The vampire did not hesitate, just opened his lips and bit down on the defenseless skin, easily piercing it. As the pungent taste exploded on his tongue, he heard Shien gasp sharply and then felt small but strong hands clench on his arms. The boy however didn’t try to escape, to deny Marakaj his blood. 

Come to think of it, he never did.

* * *

“Do you like that woman?”

Marakaj raised his head from the book he was reading and looked up at the pale blond standing in the doorway.

“What woman?” He asked puzzled.

“The one that reincarnates.”

“Sarah? Yes, I suppose so. I’ve known her for a very long time.”

“Do you consider her a friend?” The Sorcerer asked with his usual even tone. He wasn’t hiding his feelings. There was nothing to hide. Long ago, he had reached a state where he just couldn’t care less.

Marakaj stopped to think about it. It was a valid question. Most people only knew about him what he showed him, a carefully perfected façade. How could he call them friends, when they didn’t even know the real him? And it’s been an insanely long time since he showed anyone the full extent of his power, just what he was capable of. Sarah knew him the longest because of the way she reincarnated with her memories intact. She knew him, sensed the darkness inside him, understood his reasons.

“Yes.” He answered eventually. Right now, she was the closest thing he had to a friend.

“It’s a pity then. I doubt she’ll ever forgive you.” 

“Forgive me? For what?”

The blond smiled unkindly, his narrow, pale grey eyes glittered mysteriously in the golden lamplight making him seem more beautiful and even more eerie than usual. His hair reached only his waist now, obviously chopped off haphazardly without any concern for his looks. It did nothing to mar his exotic beauty, though. Only freed unruly strands to curl around his face. 

“For having her child killed.”

Marakaj froze. For all of his attitude, he felt kind of awed at the fact that she would have a child. It was a miracle for something like her. It made Marakaj hope for another miracle. 

“Why?” The Sorcerer wasn’t one for idle chatting. It made the vampire realize that it had to be something big.

“It’ll become a threat. In the end, it’ll be you or it.”

Marakaj’s brows rose.

“So what? Even Sarah didn’t exactly manage to finish me off, even though she was at the peak of her abilities at that time. Her child cannot possibly be stronger than her. She already used the quota for freaks of nature.”

“This time there’s an unexpected factor.”

“What…” Marakaj trained off and stopped to think.

The blond wasn’t one to tease. He only told Marakaj about it because he was honoring their deal.

“John Winchester.” Marakaj said eventually. The blond bowed to him in a mocking salute.

“You caught on quickly, as usual.”

“It’s not that surprising now that I think about it. After all, the man fathered two sons, and both posses some kind of power. Even I can’t exactly tell what kind it is.”

“You don’t know?” The blond seemed genuinely surprised.

“Know what?”

“That man’s ability. Or curse. However you choose to call it. I heard about men like him, but I believe it’s the first time I have actually seen one.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Hmm. Really? You should. Because that’s the only way the one you are waiting on can be reborn.”

This time Marakaj finally caught on.

“Soulless children.”

“Yes.” The Sorcerer confirmed. “The children John Winchester fathers are born without a soul. They exist outside the natural order of things. It’s thanks to them that reincarnation in possible. Because they are born without a soul, another one can easily take over. The third child has already been chosen by someone that makes even me look like a gentle lamb.”

Marakaj twisted his lips in a vague grin. Even by Marakaj’s standards, the Sorcerer was a nasty bastard.

“So, you’re telling me that I would have lost the fight?” Still, Marakaj found it a little unreal. What he currently lacked in power he more than made up with sheer battle experience.

“Not exactly.” 

“What does it mean? You either loose or win.” Marakaj snorted.

“You would kill the enemy, yes. But, before that, he would destroy something very precious to you.”

Marakaj froze.

“The one that would be reborn in that child’s body knows what a terrifying power that woman commanded. At the time of her death, both of you wielded godlike power. However, while you burned yourself out by coming here, she died at the peak of her abilities. Devouring her soul while she had the potential but not the actual ability to use the power would have been a major boost. If she was gone forever, her soul destroyed, would it still be a victory to kill the enemy?”

The vampire closed his eyes. 

No. It would have been a total defeat. Marakaj only ever regretted one thing. Only killing her. More than anything, he needed her forgiveness. Suddenly acquiring a conscience was a fucking pain in the ass.

“Tsk.” Was all he answered, not looking at the smirking mage.

“Is that the reason why Sam can’t control the Soul Weapon freely?”

The longhaired blond poured himself a drink from a crystal carafe. 

“Partly.” He sat down in a chair opposite of Marakaj and the vampire watched as the mage’s long, pale fingers fiddle with the tumbler.

“The Weapons were very well thought out and the simplicity of the rules governing them made them surprisingly foolproof so far. There are two reasons why the soul Weapon is so completely out of whack. One is the fact that he was essentially possessed at the time of birth, and the second that even that soul wasn’t his very own.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It all started four years earlier, when the first child was born. A soul that wanted to reincarnate entered the newborn… and that was when the things went bad. The soul, the very spirit was too big, too powerful, and probably too damaged to fit into that small being. Having no other choice it split. One half entered Dean Winchester, and the other waited around for a chance to reunite.”

“It entered the second child, Samuel Winchester.” Finished Marakaj. “So, although they are two separate people, they essentially have only one soul. And the Soul Weapon responds only to the whole soul. So the moment Sam touched the Weapon, they were both screwed.”

“Precisely.”

“Still, that explains a lot.” Mused the vampire.

“Hmm?” The blond man only sipped his drink calmly.

“His love for his brother. It’s not the incest that’s bothering me. In my times, it was quite a common practice to marry one’s sister. It’s the sheer intensity of it.”

“Why?” The narrow eyed man looked puzzled. “I always thought that vampires were very passionate creatures.”

“We are.” Marakaj steeped his fingers in front of his face; his exotic eyes had a kind of faraway look that only made him look more attractive. “We like our food lively and beautiful and our lovers hot and passionate. But the feeling that exists between the brothers... it’s disgusting.” 

The Sorcerers brows raised. He was obviously surprised at Marakaj using such a strong word.

“It changes Sam’s personality so completely even a stranger like me can see it.” Marakaj rose from the chair and started pacing the room in long, measured strides. “It twists him down to his very soul. On an emotional level, there’s a lack of balance that brings the boy only pain. From what I know about soul splitting, it usually means cutting everything in half. From watching the Winchester brats, I can already tell that it happened differently in their case. Somehow, instead of splitting everything evenly, it seems that one brother got one set of characteristics and the other what was left. And it wasn’t an even split. Even their abilities confirm it. Dean is more defensive. I can sense some kind of healing ability, probably reinforcement too. Sam on the other hand is more offensive type, even though their mental characteristics are in total opposition. From what I tasted in Sam’s blood, he has shown some talent for telekinesis, he had visions of the future. Very accurate ones, too. But he is also very empathic. It makes no sense. You don’t give compassion to a warrior and you don’t give defensive skills to someone mentally more suited to be a warrior. In the end though, it’s still Sam that suffers the most. Somehow, he was always aware that he needed his brother on a level far surpassing that of a sibling. He realized his need and it turned sexual, not only emotional. Dean on the other hand never saw Sam as anything else than a little brother. I’m not saying Dean doesn’t love Sam or need him. But it’s a different kind of need. Besides, he could never use Sam to his full potential.”

The mage tilted his head, his narrow, pale eyes considered the vampire.

“You actually want to save him.” The pale blond seemed really surprised this time. While he didn’t care about anybody anymore, Marakaj, even though passionate about life, had his goals and they were the only thing he truly cared about. He would sacrifice anyone and every one of his friends in a heartbeat if it meant getting one step closed to his ultimate goal.

Marakaj stopped his pacing and leaned on the windowsill, one hand spread over the cold glass, looking at nothing but darkness outside. 

“Maybe. There’s just something about the boy... so much potential. So much pain. Maybe I do want to save him from the miserable existence. Unlike his brother. I see him for what he is. Not a sweet little Sammy controlled by some Big Bad Thing, but a good human with an overwhelming ability to kill. I could direct, train and use that potential while Dean can only deny its existence. He’s so far off the mark about what Sam needs now it’s not even funny.”

“But you won’t get Sam. They have one soul after all.” The Sorcerer was only stating the obvious.

Marakaj smiled unpleasantly.

“I’m not so sure. Sarah claims every Weapon needs a Wielder. But, from what I’ve seen, as long as you give him a focus he can function perfectly well on his own.”

The Sorcerer looked interested. “So, you claim that she is wrong about the Weapons she created?”

“Not wrong per se. But she forgets a simple but very important thing. The Soul Weapons are partially sentient. They also possess the ability to learn and adapt to new surroundings. They evolved, and she’s not realizing it.”

“It does make some sense.” Agreed the mage.

“Still, if Dean doesn’t catch a clue soon, I will completely take over his brother.” Marakaj smiled, but it was a dangerous, cruel grin. “Right now, I’m the only one Sam can turn for comfort. Simply because I am a stranger. There’s no guilt with me. No shame.”

Marakaj had a very powerful presence. Charismatic and seductive, he drew people to him. He was a natural born leader. He was like a flame for a moth, irresistible. It was a little scary sometimes to watch just how good Marakaj was at figuring out what made people tick.

The vampire sighed. 

“You are just a well of good news today.” Marakaj remarked sarcastically. “First Sarah’s child and then the fact that I can’t really separate the Winchester brats.”

“Why not take them both? The older one has powers too.” Asked the blond.

Marakaj shook his head.

“No. Not together.”

“Why?”

“To control Sam, I need him a little off kilter, vulnerable. When he has Dean in his sights he becomes much stronger. For his brother’s sake. Anyway, back to the matter at hand. Can you tell me how in the hell I can get rid of Sarah’s child without killing her, or myself in the process? Even though she still hesitates, I know she’ll decide to keep the baby eventually. I once survived the full outburst of her powers. Barely. I don’t particularly care to repeat the experience. Besides, I was younger and more powerful then. I could probably win a battle with her, mostly because I have nothing against playing dirty. Still, the amount of damage would be... staggering.”

“You don’t know?” Asked the mage surprised.

“About what?”

“That woman’s power. It’s not even close to its original level.”

“How is that possible? That kind of powers is not a bank account. You can’t just use it up with time.”

The Sorcerer smiled his usual, mocking little smile.

“Because of the Weapons of course. They don’t have any power of their own. They are only a conduct. That woman is like a well for them, a source they directly take from. And they take a lot. I’m surprised you didn’t notice that yourself.”

Marakaj considered it for a moment.

“I didn’t. But what is more important is the fact that I think that Sarah didn’t notice it either. It’s not like she actually uses her powers anymore. She probably never realized that her limits are completely different now from what they were ages ago.” Marakaj mused.

“That doesn’t change much though. The moment she is in danger the other Weapons would immediately respond. I can’t take such a risk. I’m not strong enough.”

“Then use someone stronger.”

“Who? People wielding that kind of power don’t just happen to laze around you know?”

“The head of Nostrado family.”

Marakaj choked.

“That... monster?!”

“Can you think of anyone else who could easily oppose that woman’s power?”

“If you are thinking about the High Families among humans, the Nostrado family is the most powerful one. Although the leader of Whitecastle clan is an old geezer that only thinks he is powerful, his grandson is something else. If Sheldon found his Link he would be a very dangerous man. The head of Dubois family, Maya, is also exceptionally talented. From what I've heard, she is a Soul Weapon too. And that disqualifies her on the start. From the vampire clans the leader of the family controlling Asia is worth mentioning, but ultimately you are right. Only that cursed child of Nostrado family can oppose Sarah and come out victorious.” Marakaj summed up with a sour look on his face.

“You seem reluctant to pursue that option.” Noticed the Sorcerer, a little surprised.

“Yes, I am. Frankly speaking, I do not wish to be in any kind of proximity to that monster. All the leaders of Nostrado family were abominations, and, from what I've heard, the current head of their clan is probably the most powerful one in existence.”

“Aya Nostrado is a teenager now, a sixteen year old boy who commands Death. While Sarah can drain energy and subsequently kill any chosen target, Aya only has to think it and Death itself will cut the strings of life on his request. Nostrado is the purest family considering bloodlines, and their abilities are exactly as the ones of the founder of their family. Unlike other High Families, they never lost the blood purity.”

“Still…” Murmured Marakaj. “What could I possibly offer to a teenager that has it all? Money, power... all he needs to do is ask, and it’ll be given to him. Can you see anything?” The vampire mused.

The Sorcerer licked his lips and for the first time averted his eyes.

“It’s uncomfortably hard to foresee what that boy will do. His very nature, a child chosen by Death and protected by it, has unlimited possibilities. But there is one event in his life, one decision that I can actually see very clearly. If I can see it, it has to be something extremely important for him.”

Marakaj frowned, it was the first time he got such a vague answer from the Sorcerer.

“Tell me what you saw.” Demanded the vampire, leaning towards the pale man. After all, he would need all the bargaining chips he could have to even be allowed to talk to the Nostrado boy.

 

TBC


	21. Chapter 21

John stood quietly in the corridor, his hands in his pockets, a heavy, leather bound volume tucked under his arm, and watched the vampire approach him. 

He didn’t move, blocking the way, making the longhaired man stop and lock his eyes with John. The eldest Winchester knew it was a risk, that someone as old as Marakaj would have enough power to pull him under his spell if John wasn’t careful. Still, he needed to show Marakaj that he was serious. That he knew what was going on and why.

“Something I can help you with?” Asked the vampire, ever the gracious host.

John watched the way the vampire shifted his stance, leaning one shoulder on the tastefully beige wall. He watched the manicured hand reach into the pocket of the well tailored slacks and pull out a thin, silver case then light the herbal cigarette, inhaling deeply.

The smoke smelled sweet, almost like a drug.

“He’s not yours,” John said in the end, still uncomfortable with the way he was all too aware of how damn attractive the vampire was. 

Marakaj raised one eyebrow and took another deep inhale. Letting his lids fall, obscuring the oddly colored eyes, he turned his face partially away.

“You are not one to beat around the bush, are you?” The vampire Murmured.

John pressed his hands deeper into his pockets, to stop himself from doing something stupid. He kept repeating to himself that the urge to grab the irritating vampire came solely from his need to kill the bastard and nothing else.

“You can’t have him,” He hissed through clenched teeth. “Quit playing with him and leave Sammy alone.”

“Oh?” Marakaj opened his eyes and locked those odd, black-blue orbs on John, still vaguely amused but hiding something darker, colder. “The way I see it, if I leave him alone, there won’t be a soul willing to help him anymore.”

John flinched. The polite bastard knew how to aim for the most painful places.

“He has a family. He has me and his brother. There’s no place for you in this equation. Sam has nothing to do with you.”

Marakaj threw his head back, letting the long hair fall loosely around his shoulders and laughed, long, hard and cynical.

“You people, you kill me every time. Every single time.” He pushed himself away from the wall, “neither you nor your older son understand Sam. You either avoid him or try to force him into the pre-prepared forms you think he should be in. What’s even more pitiful is the way you avoid knowing him, preferring to stay blind and deaf.” There was true irritation in the vampire’s eyes now. “Don’t tell me what to do. Right now, I am the one person who truly sees Samuel for what he is. You see, we have more in common than either of us would ever want.”

Marakaj’s eyes hardened, the amusement gone, but John still couldn’t read him.

“Now either do something, or move. You are in my way.”

Clenching his jaw, John moved aside. There was too much truth to the vampire’s words. He was quick to warn off Marakaj, but it was also true that he avoided Sam recently. And Dean? Well about that, John had no idea either...

Angry, frustrated and, above all, lost, John watched the vampire walk away, wishing he had someone to blame, to take this fear out on.

Suddenly Marakaj stopped.

“He doesn’t have long.” The longhaired man said without turning around.

* * *

Sam was dreaming. He knew he was asleep; wandering his dreamscape after whatever the illusions Marakaj induced was quickly becoming a ritual. He wondered if it was a side effect of the vampire interfering in his mind or maybe something else. 

He was tired; the emotional rollercoaster he suffered under the influence of illusion exhausted him both physically and mentally, leaving him too numb, too tired to care for anything. Maybe it was a coward‘s way out, but he could no longer see any options for himself. He felt like the guilt and anger would drive him insane. He didn’t want to be so angry at Dean, so hateful and aggressive even. But what could he possibly do? Acting in good faith, Dean send him in a kind of hell he simply could not survive. Knowing what it felt like to have his dreams in the palm of his hands, Sam could no longer accept the reality that Dean had rejected him.

He closed his eyes and inhaled the cold air.

It was something he never dreamt of before. A forest in the middle of winter, on the brink of dawn, when the light had that strange gray color. The air was cold and crisp and the thick layer of snow underneath his boots crunched with every step he took. 

It was quiet there, no animals, no birds to provide a background noise. Just this stillness and coldness. It made him even more numb, like everything in the real world was far, far away. 

He liked this place.

Maybe a little too much.

After walking for minutes, maybe hours, he reached the familiar lake. It was the only truly extraordinary thing in his dream. Huge, frozen surface of water, stretching as far as the eye could see, with a milky white mist wafting over it in lazy circles. It kind of reminded him of a B class horror movie, he thought with a wry twist of his lips.

Sam could‘t see anything in the mist but he knew, could feel that there was something there. Not threatening, not really alive even. Just… there.

Suddenly, the short hair on the nape of his neck stood on ends and his senses told him he was being watched. It was a surprise, to feel somebody’s presence in this sleeping forest.

When he turned around, he was no longer standing at the edge of the lake but on it. He was surrounded by thick, wet fog that chilled him to the bone. It was still eerily quiet, but that wasn’t what unnerved him. He rather liked the stillness of this place. Sam understood, somehow, that it wasn’t always like this. Quiet, empty, unreal and not alive, yet not truly dead either.

Limbo.

His heart gave a painful lurch in his chest, burning his lungs and throat at the sight in front of him.

It could almost have been his reflection. Just as tall, dressed like him, mirroring his posture almost perfectly. There was only one glaring difference that made it impossible for Sam to think that it was only a reflection of him.

He stared into the completely black eyes set in his own face and felt nausea threatening to wrench his stomach inside out. Shock, a distant part of his brain informed him, he was going into shock.

“How... what are you doing here?” Sam asked, not liking the panicked pitch his voice was reaching.

The Weapon tilted its head, an oddly unfamiliar gesture in a familiar face.

“What do you want?” Burst out of Sam, without his control, the shock and panic making it hard to think. “You were supposed to be asleep!”

The Weapon kept looking at him, black eyes without whites making it impossible to read his expression. Distantly, Sam wondered if Dean felt as lost in his encounters with the Weapon as he felt right now. He never realized how many non-verbal cues one took from a person’s eyes.

“Do not ask me,” answered the Weapon finally, his voice nauseatingly similar. It was like listening to a recording of himself. “It was you who came here, to me.”

“This place is real? It... exists?”

The Weapon looked at him with those unsettling eyes, and once again Sam wondered how Dean could possibly stand looking into them.

“It’s where we wait. Where we sleep.” The Weapon answered calmly and looked somewhere behind Sam’s shoulder. Driven by a kind of morbid curiosity, so horrified he was already numb, Sam turned around.

The thick mist of before was clearing rapidly letting him see dozens of shapes standing on the ice. Men and women, of different ages and nationality, stood unmoving on the frozen water. Their eyes were open and they were staring into nothingness as the ice slowly crept up their bodies. Some looked as if they only just got there, some had their feet completely encased in ice, others had it crawling up their legs, hips, arms... one woman was almost completely covered in ice and snow, only one black eye still visible and free, the other already covered by the harsh ice.

The Weapon noticed where Sam was looking.

“She’s been waiting for a very, very long time.”

“She looks like she’s.. dying. But that shouldn’t be possible right? The Weapons are immortal.”

His mirror reflection looked at the half frozen woman with eyes that held no expression. His own face looked inhuman to Sam in that moment.

“She is dying in a way. Her Wielder’s soul was too damaged to support her. Even though the Weapon took on herself most of the physical damage, the shock of what happened damaged the person that is her Wielder so badly that they were no longer able to sustain the Weapon properly.”

It took everything in Sam to look back at the man speaking to him, at the thing that looked just like him. But he didn’t let his eyes slide off the man’s form so quickly this time. He forced himself to look carefully over the achingly familiar form. This time he saw the things that had escaped him before. Just barely visible, he saw that the light sleeve was covered with thin dusting of frost.

The Weapon looked at him with dark, dark eyes that betrayed no emotion.

“It’s already too late.”

Sam woke up screaming.

* * *

John watched Sam stare at the now cold breakfast. The silence between them wasn’t as strained as before, but it wasn’t comfortable either.

It could have been seconds or it could have been ages before Sam finally pushed the tray away and curled his fingers in his hair, resting his elbows on the table and his head in his hands.

“I think...” started Sam with an oddly listless voice, “I think I’m broken.” He sank even lower, pressing his forehead into the cool wood and curling his arms around him like a shield. “There’s something wrong with me. I think... it was from the very beginning.”

“Sam...” whispered John, at a loss of what to say.

“I think...” it seemed that Sam either hadn’t heard John or simply ignored him. “I don’t think I can be fixed, Dad.” His voice was low and quiet, much too calm. 

“It’s only been a few weeks. Give it time, Sam… we could seek help...” He offered hesitantly, now way too scared to even consider holding on to his pride. “Just... don’t give up, Sam. That’s not the way to do anything...”

Sam turned his head, one cheek still resting on the wooden surface, messy hair falling all over the place and looked up at John from his odd position. Even in the shadows, the uncommon, luminous green of his eyes after the transformation made the older Winchester’s breath catch. Sam stared at him with calm, steady eyes.

“Do you know what happened when Pandora opened the forbidden box?” Asked Sam out of the blue, still staring at John with one eye.

Confused as to why his son was suddenly asking about Greek mythology, John nevertheless answered: 

“All the misfortunes of Man got out.”

An odd, bitter smile curved his son’s lips.

“And do you know what was the last horror that escaped the box?”

John felt his chest constrict, like a vicious case of indigestion. He said nothing as Sam straightened from his slouch and rose from the table. He sat still, staring at the patterns on the highly polished table, trying to convince himself that the burning in his chest was because of the foreign cuisine that was served in Marakaj’s household. 

He heard the door close with a soft click and closed his eyes, feeling drained of energy, tired and so very, very helpless.

“Hope.” He whispered quietly. “Hope was the last misfortune.”

 

* * *

When Sam woke up the second time, it was late afternoon. Warm, red sunlight filtered lazily through his open window, the air much too cool for comfort, yet his skin was clammy with sweat.

He got up, unwilling to notice anything different about himself. He felt hollow, empty, so very tired. His body, however, was moving fluidly, with power and strength that he never knew before. The bathroom was small but still luxurious. The mirror over the large sink was clear and wide, letting him watch himself no matter if he wants it or not. He let the warm water flow, waiting till the mirror fogged up, keeping his eyes firmly on the water. He didn’t want to see the shadows under his eyes, the too bright green of his pupils, didn’t want to acknowledge it at all.

He was halfway dressed when the knock on his door came.

Sam didn’t even need to look to know who was on the other side. The Weapon was waking and with it so were his senses. He buttoned up his pants the rest of the way and didn’t stop to dry his face or the water from his chest where he had splashed it. Slowly, with curious detachment, he opened the door to find his brother outside. He was aware of the low grade anger that burned in the back of his mind, a voice screaming “How dare you!” at Dean and another one whimpering for forgiveness, but, mostly, he was just numb. His eyes skimmed over his brother’s form. It was always a surprise to realize that Dean was shorter than him. The incredible, older brother always seemed larger than life to him. He noticed then that Dean wasn’t as comfortable around him as he pretended to be. He was dressed in his favorite boots, the faded jeans and one of the red shirts Sam liked so much. But he had his leather jacket on and, for Sam, it just screamed insecurity. He had a bottle of some kind of clear alcohol in hand.

“Hey, Sammy.” He greeted cheerfully, but Sam noticed how Dean’s eyes skidded over his bare chest and then glued themselves firmly at a spot on his cheek. 

Dean smiled but it didn’t really reach his eyes and it broke Sam’s heart a little more to realize that however much he was suffering, so was Dean. It wasn’t also hard to realize that he was the cause for his brother’s pain.

“I brought us something good,” Dean offered uncertainly, waving the bottle as proof. “So, you going to let me in or what?”

Sam thought about refusing, about just shutting his door and avoiding this whole, strained thing. But that required effort and Sam doesn’t have the strength anymore. 

He nodded and let his brother in, stepping to the side and admiring, in a detached way, the grace with which his brother moved into the room. As he watched an expression of slight unease flit over his older brother’s face, Sam didn’t even feel pain or surprise. Only an odd sense of relief.

A week ago, it seemed impossible for him to let it go; he felt like some kind of animal was inside him, just waiting for him to lose control. Now everything seemed so clear. There was no need to fight, to rage against Dean and whatever choices he made.

There simply was no more hope left.

Quietly, he closed the door and followed his brother, feeling calm and almost at peace for the first time in what felt like years.

Sam watched his brother carefully. Dean was truly drunk; he didn’t notice or didn’t care that he drank most of the alcohol alone, Sam only sipping at his glass distractedly. 

The younger Winchester felt eerily calm. Now that the decision was made, every moment gained certain clarity. So, he was glad that Dean drank so much and rambled about inconsequential things. The meaningless babble let him imprint his brother’s voice in his memory, match the way he moved, the way he talked, the way he furrowed his brows when a complicated word was escaping his inebriated mind.

“Dean,” He added softly, stopping his brother mid ramble about the planned tune up of his precious Impala.

His brother looked at him with more focus than he should probably be capable of.

Sam sat down on the floor, beside his brother and reached a gentle hand to stroke his hair. However he tried, he could not keep the love out of his touch.

“It’s going to be okay, Dean.” He whispered, eyes carefully etching his brother’s face in his memory. “I’m going to make everything better.” He promised, his hand still stroking the short hair carefully.

“How?” Dean asked with startling clarity.

Sam smiled, grateful again that his brother was so drunk that he didn’t see the goodbye in Sam’s eyes.

“Just trust me, big brother. I just need you to remember one thing. Will you promise me that?”

“What?” Asked Dean, helplessly confused.

Sam smiled gently again, still petting Dean, seeing that the alcohol was making Dean sleepy.

“It wasn’t you fault. None of this mess was. Not yours, not Dad’s, not mine. So please, let go of this guilt. For me. Will you do this?”

“Sammy...” Dean mumbled, already more than half asleep.

“Please.”

“Anything... I would do anything for you, Sammy.” The words were barely audible, Dean already almost completely asleep.

Sam closed his eyes, swallowing past the lump in his throat.

“I know, Dean. I know.”

When he was sure Dean was asleep, he bent down and kissed his brother on the cheek, the stubble tickling his lips.

“I love you.” He whispered for the last time, not even bothering to keep back the change that threatened him the whole day.

As the blackness slid over his eyes again, he rose from the floor. It was time to find their vampire host and make another deal.

 

TBC


	22. Chapter 22

He woke up to the feeling that something was happening, that something significant to the future he’s been tracking was going to happen soon. The Sorcerer rolled out of bed, not bothering to dress beyond throwing a soft, white robe over his thin form.

 

As soon as he stood up a nauseating headache send him to his knees. As he felt his latest meal making it’s way up his throat again, dozens of visions kept beating at his mind in jumbled, incoherent waves, senseless and without any rhyme or reason. It was as if each and every one of them wanted to get to him at the same time.

 

That never happened to him before, but at the same time felt oddly familiar.

 

“It’s really troublesome if you keep remembering things.”

 

The voice surprised the Sorcerer. He turned towards the entrance to his room with an uncommon sense of dread starting deep in his belly.

 

Something was not right.

 

There, illuminated from behind by the light streaming from the corridor, stood Shien. The Chinese boy was as immaculate as always, dressed in white pants and a loose tunic with embroidered flowers, his hair braided in a tight, neat French braid that exposed his pretty face quiet well.

 

He was always pretty and always a bit disturbing in his complete devotion to Marakaj, but he was also very weak. His telepathy was well trained but negligent, his mental presence not even a blip on the Sorcerer’s radar.

 

Yet it was different this time. Even without knowing, without understanding why, without even conscious thought he took a step back from the boy.

 

Something was wrong.

 

What the child was implying, it was impossible. The boy wasn’t strong enough to penetrate his defenses, not to mention actually sealing his memories.

 

Yet there was something wrong, something he felt he should remember…

 

The boy smiled.

 

“I have not only sealed your memories Sorcerer, I have sealed your visions too.” The boy said with odd half smile that made him look like a stranger.

 

“Ridiculous. Someone as pathetically weak as you couldn’t even scratch the surface of my defenses.”

 

The boy stepped into the room fully, letting the door close behind him with a soft, final click.

 

“True, this human existence called Shien is no threat to you whatsoever.” The voice, although still the boys had a different modulation this time. Lower, subtly amused, so very sure of itself timbre that spoke of power, age and experience. All the things the boy didn’t have.

 

When Sorcerer looked him in the eyes again, he wasn’t surprised to see them different. Pale grey, they seemed to be washed out of color, almost blending with the whites, only the pupils were shockingly black among the paleness.

 

Possession.

 

The change was so smooth, that it didn’t even cause a ripple in the boy’s aura. That meant the possession was happening for a very long time, probably since the boy’s birth, controlled and smooth enough that none of them noticed anything.

 

How could they not notice? He with his visions and Marakaj…

 

“I must admit though, even for a being such as me, leading you on was quite the hard work. You prove to be unexpectedly stubborn for someone who claims to be so tired of life.” The boy shrugged, a calculated, elegant move. “It’s the second time this century you have broken through the seal.”

 

This century?!

 

“How long...” For the first time in a very, very long time the Sorcerer was lost for words.

 

The boy smirked.

 

“I have been herding you along my chosen path for the last nine centuries. You shouldn’t try to fight me though, Sorcerer. In this world nothing can oppose my power. It will only make me more irritated if you fight.”

 

The aura never changed, the boy still gave off the impression of being almost helpless.

 

Driven by instinct, the older man tried to move, reach the spell circle etched into the floor, but before he reached his destination a single word reached his ears and the world stopped.

 

Impossible.

 

The word wasn’t in any human language he knew, and he knew most of them. The power in each melodic syllable was strong enough to rattle his teeth to stop his body in his tracks.

 

“That curse of yours is very inconvenient. It seems you were cursed by one of my kind, so I cannot break it even though I tried to. That time I made humans dismember you and hide pieces of your body in different locations seemed to do the trick for a while. But well, even if I can’t kill you I could make use of you. For all my power I don’t actually know the future. Not like you.”

 

Another word, and the Sorcerer was kneeling on the floor, his body completely obedient to the boy commanding it, or rather the entity that used the boy as his avatar.

 

“The only obstacle is that damn Vampire. Who would have thought that simply because he is from another world, it would cause such a damn difference. It only meant I had to be a bit more careful.”

 

Another word and the older man could feel all his defenses lowering, opening his mind to outside intrusion.

 

“It’s useless. Every being born on this world was imprinted with those words.”

 

Staring at the boy, at his pale, colorless eyes, the Sorcerer finally understood.

 

God’s Language

 

The ultimate power bestowed by God himself to those chosen to watch over the life He created.

 

Those words could not be learned or even understood by anyone else other than those chosen to bear that Language as their own.

 

It was almost too fantastical to even think about it, but…. an Angel?

 

The boy smiled again and the older man had an impression of dirty white snow falling all over them.

 

“You are not wrong...” As he watched, the Sorcerer noticed that it wasn’t snow but feathers. Thousandths upon thousandths of feathers, light gray in color, fell all around them. “But you are not exactly right either.”

 

As the boy touched the blonde man’s forehead and started sifting through memories, erasing them one by one and giving him seconds to understand the visions that were deleted too, the wizard understood the subtle error in his interpretation of the future.

 

“Sam Winchester…”

 

“Ironic isn’t it?” Murmured the creature masquerading as Shien and then everything went dark, his mind once more rewritten.

 

 

*          *          *

 

As he knocked on the massive wooden door, Sam felt an icy calmness sweep over him.

 

That was it.

 

For better or worse, his decision was made.

 

Oddly enough it made the Weapon in him unusually content,

 

Now, instead of forcing it’s control over his psyche, it seemed satisfied with whispering things into his mind, random bits of knowledge just seeping right into him, without obstacles.

 

The moment he made his decision to leave, something shifted in him.

 

He left Dean twice already. It seemed third time was going to be it, because this time he was not going to leave any way back for himself.

 

“Come in.”

 

The door opened on it’s own. This charmed house seemed to be unusually obedient towards it’s vampire master.

 

Actually navigating through this house was incredibly easy, instinctual even. Even Dad got it so fast. Only Dean had problems, but it wasn’t like the house wouldn’t send Dean where he wanted to be. Quite the opposite. The house reacted to his brother almost too well. The only reason why Dean was always lost in this charmed house was because Dean himself couldn’t decide where he wanted to be. Unconsciously he was avoiding Sam all that time.

 

There really weren’t many options left to Sam if he wanted to stop hurting his brother and father. If he died, Dean would blame himself, not to mention that Sam promised not to take his own life. If he disappeared both Dean and Dad wouldn’t stop at nothing to find him. Just like he would do to find any of them.

 

That left him only one option. Make it so that they wouldn’t even know there was something missing.

 

As the door opened, Sam was greeted to a sight straight from a gothic novel.

 

The dark haired vampire was sitting in one of the luxurious leather armchairs, all decadence and expensive clothing, while the little Asian boy, dressed immaculately as always, was pouring him tea into a fragile looking china cup.

 

The boy wore white, as always. Thin pants and long sleeved tunic that buttoned up to his neck and was adorned with intricate silver designs on the left side.

 

Lotus flowers this time.

 

“I had a feeling you would come.” Murmured the vampire while taking a sip of the fragrant tea.

 

Sam watched the graceful move. In a purely neutral way Sam could admit that Marakaj was stunningly attractive.

 

Powerful.

 

Male.

 

Seemingly perfect…

 

... If only he wasn’t so damn irritating at the same time.

 

Sam stopped in front of the man and put his hands behind his back to hide their shaking.

 

“Will you grant me a favor?”

 

Sam asked formally. It was time to butter the vampire up.

 

With a smirk, Marakaj leaned back in his chair, setting the china back on the antique table.

 

“If it’s beneficial to me.”

 

As he headed for the second chair, greeted with Shien’s icy silence and his Weapon’s irritation with the boy, Sam pretended not to see the carefully hidden pity in Marakaj’s eyes. He was grateful that the dark haired man chose to be extra annoying and condescending. Sam felt that should he be shown any compassion then, it would break him.

 

 

*          *          *

 

Marakaj stood at the front steps of his driveway, keeping the beasts at bay as Samuel Winchester made his way down the road, single duffel bag in his hand.

 

The boy was calm, too calm even for what he wanted to do. There was still a chance for him to back down, but Marakaj knew he wouldn’t do it. That boy’s mind was already made up.

 

“Why are you letting him go?”

 

It was Shien asking. While the boy loathed Sam Winchester, he was loyal to Marakaj. The vampire sighed and lit another cigarette, inhaling the smoke deeply.

 

“The kind of spell he wants performed is too costly for me. Like most magic users my power can’t replenish at such levels. I have already used up a lot of my power. I’ve got to be careful with the rest. The possible rewards are not worth it this time.”

 

Shien looked at the slowly retreating back.

 

“Isn’t it because you don’t want to see him live like this?”

 

Marakaj chuckled, but it was a bitter, sad kind of sound.

 

“Maybe...” The vampire ground his cigarette into the concrete. “That kind of sorrowful existence... I don’t want to have anything to do with it.”

 

“How are the remaining Winchesters?” The vampire asked after a pause.

 

Shien straightened.

 

“Unconscious.” He reported. “The ghost is still hanging round Dean.”

 

“Good. Keep them that way for now. As for the ghost, if it starts to act up, destroy it.”

 

When Marakaj turned to go back into the house, Shien stopped him again.

 

“I don’t understand. You pity him, like him even, but you act without any kind of consistency around him. You won’t perform the spell, even though you could. Yet you have nothing against using his wish for your own benefit.”

 

The vampire sighed.

 

“He wants to throw away his life. It’s a sign of my respect that I will use that sacrifice for my benefit. As he is now, Sam will go to Maya Dubois and offer himself to her service. She is hard pressed for new operatives right now so she’ll be indebted to me, which will prove useful. After all she does control the largest private military force in the US. She will arrange for Sam to have his wish, and it will be under her command that he will loose his life eventually. However in the meantime he will do something he always loved doing.”

 

Shien looked at him questioningly.

 

“Help people. Even now, Sam Winchester wants to help.”

 

 

*          *          *

 

            Sam could sense her long before he saw her. Something inside him, the Weapon, kept singing this constant chant of _mothermothermothermother_. It was surprising that something this powerful could be so childishly simple in it’s joy.

 

With every step the sense of the awareness inside him grew stronger, as did the sense of disconnection. Ever since he dreamed of the Weapon for the first time, Sam kept separating it in his mind. It wasn’t him completely, but neither was it something else. He couldn’t explain it even if he wanted to. He could sense which sensations and emotions were from the Weapon and which were his. That, too, troubled him. With each hour the thing inside him became more human to him. More real. How could he call it a monster, a demon, when he could literally feel the innocent love it held for it’s creator? There wasn’t anything twisted or dark in it. Just simple joy and a bit of apprehension that it didn’t fulfill it’s promise to that woman as completely as it would have liked to.

 

Outside the gates stood a small blue ford. He could see Sarah Andrews leaning on the driver door, looking at him.

 

“Marakaj called.” She explained in advance. “Thought you might need a lift.”

 

She was a pretty woman, gentle and soft in a way only Jess was, but not beautiful. Sam could feel he would have liked her but he couldn’t really see what attracted his father to her. She had definitely more flesh on her bones that was considered attractive, her face while pretty, wasn’t anything extraordinary. Her most noticeable features were her hair, soft and shining, and her unusually light amber eyes.

 

“Um, thanks.” He offered uneasily. She was his father’s lover after all. It still made his mind bend a little to think of his Dad this way.

 

“There’s water and sandwiches in the back.” She offered as they crammed themselves into the small car.

 

As she started the car and started driving down the forest road, Sam turned to look through the provisions on the backseat. He could feel her watching him from the corner of her eye.

 

“Where are we going?” He still wasn’t too sure about the next steps. Marakaj merely had a few hours to set everything in motion.

 

“There a small city, Cedona, two day’s driving from here. That’s where main houses of most High Families are located. You are going to Maya Dubois, the current head of that family. Did Marakaj tell you anything?”

 

“Not really.”

 

“High Families is a term that describes those people whose powers are hereditary. A long time ago there were dozens of those kinds of bloodlines. Some very powerful, some merely a blip on the supernatural radar. These days their powers are mostly reliant on the purity of their DNA. If there was too many non-talented people mixed in, the blood purity was lost and the power lessened and often almost completely lost. During the centuries some families ceased to exist, some combined, even new ones emerged. However only the strongest, oldest bloodlines have the right to call themselves High Families. Vampires also fall under that system. There are different races or vampires, as there are different races of humans. Things such as monsters, fairies, werevolves... each of them can be connected to some family or other. In Cedona here are currently three main High Families present. Other are either stationed abroad or in different parts of the country. The three are Dubois, Whitecastle and Nostrado.

 

I will start with Nostrado since there’s not much known about them anyway. As a family they deal mostly in banking and real estate, almost none of the members have any kind of power, besides a weak affinity for spell casting. They are however the strongest, most powerful High Family. One with the purest blood of all.”

 

“If they have no power, why are they so powerful?”

 

Sarah sighed.

 

“I am telling you only what I heard. I am no expert and I don’t really know any details but from what I heard Nostrado are Necromancers. They deal with Death in it’s many forms. There’s a rumor that almost all of their guards are actually zombies. They are so feared not because of the strength of the whole family but because of their leader. The head of Nostrado Family is said to be chosen by Death itself. He or she can kill by merely wishing a person to die, they can also bring back the dead.”

 

“As zombies?”

 

“Yes, but not the kind you saw before. Rumors say that something completely different and much, much worse. Anyway what you need to know is to never, ever go against people that identify themselves as Nostrado. Luckily they don’t really care about inter-Families dealings and only involve themselves when things reach their own turf. You probably won’t ever meet anybody from their family and especially the main court.”

 

“Court? As in…” Despite himself Sam got interested.

 

“They act like medieval kingdoms. The ruling person is on top of everything, the closer one is to the head of the family, the higher the status and power. Court is a term that describes those most important people.”

 

“Okay. It sounds like a fantasy novel. So what’s next? Whitecastle?”

 

“Yes. They are mainly in entertainment business. Most of today’s most popular models or musicians are connected one way or the other with that family. Their power lies in spell casting and compulsion. They can influence people in different ways and with different intensity. From a simple charm to complete control. Of course only the highest ranked members are at a dangerous level. These day’s besides Nostrado, no family has true blood purity. It’s hard to describe. The current head is Sean Whitecastle, a sixty-five year old man whose skills are very doubtful. He couldn’t make anyone even blink on command. He is however proficient in spell casting. What you have to know about the ruling family is that some centuries back, when they realized that their power was disappearing, they made a contract with a… well, something. Some say it was a demon, some that it was a god or a Great Spirit… anyway the contract is hereditary to all members of the ruling family but it’s only active when the person who inherited it can actually fulfill it.”

 

“That doesn’t sound good. Sacrifices?”

 

“No. I don’t think so. I know that their contract is bound to their own bodies, but nothing else. The details are guarded rather jealously. Anyway Sean Whitecastle is still the head but his... mandate for power is heavily endangered by his grandson. Sheldon Whitecastle is the most powerful mage of these times. Rumors say that his contract is fully active – something not seen in over three centuries. If the spell you want is ever going to be performed, that man is going to do it. He is the only one to survive casting something so big and only one capable of keeping the spell alive for as long as you need it. I have never met him but I heard things. Most amusing rumor is that Marakaj never met him personally. The rumor says that if you want to be sure the decision you made in that man’s presence are truly yours, you shouldn’t look him in the eyes, listen to his voice and never let him touch you. Kinda hard on the guy, aren’t they?”

 

Sam could feel his eyebrows climbing.

 

“You are joking. That’s so fantastic even I can’t believe it.”

 

“That’s merely the outlines. There’s much more. If you want your plan to succeed, you need Sheldon. However for you it’s impossible. Without connections and huge amounts of money, you won’t be able to meet him at all. That’s why you are going to go to Maya Dubois and offer your services. Dubois is practically a fallen High Family. They blood purity is so low it’s a joke. Only a few dozen people even show all the characteristic traits for that family, all the remaining members only have one of the abilities, usually the physical side.”

 

“So what are their abilities?”

 

“Dubois are also called Cats. They share a very close connection to beasts. They are stronger and faster than humans, can transform their fingers into claws. Their senses are sharper that human. Their affinity is for negating supernatural elements actually. Closest to nature, if one has strong genes, they will be immune to magic, demons… basically anything that has it’s origin in the supernatural. Due to their very precarious position Dubois do what police does for normal people. They police the Families, chase down those who break their laws, punish them and also interact with ordinary law enforcers. Those are the regular troops. All members of that family are employed that way. It’s a matriarchy by the way. It’s the women that have the power. The previous leader stared up another corps though. Special units that consist of people with all kinds of abilities. Those units are loyal not to the Dubois family but only to the current leader. You will apply for a job there.”

 

“Marakaj explained it to me. It’s a one way road. Once I am a part of those special forces, it’s for life.”

 

Sarah looked uncomfortable.

 

“Yes. The binding performed at the signing of the contract is absolute and unbreakable. So think carefully. You will have to fulfill every order. You will no longer have an option to refuse.” She warned Sam, her face dark.

 

“She will make my wish come true. She will have that spell cast.”

 

“Yes. Most people come to her because they want something done they can’t do themselves.”

 

Silence stretched between them.

 

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” Sam challenged. “I know you want to.”

 

She watched the passing scenery.

 

“A long time ago... It would have spared me a lot of pain, if somebody else decided to do the same thing. Memories are sometimes the worst of torture. I don’t know if it’s good or bad, what you are trying to do.” She swallowed audibly. “But I can understand the need to take away somebody’s pain.

 

_Warm hands and heavy weight on her lap._

_I’m sorry, so sorry…_

_Will you ever forgive me for asking this?_

 

“Things you would never do for yourself, you will do for somebody you love.”

 

Sam said nothing, just looked through the side window with sightless eyes.

To be continued in Book II


End file.
